Destiny Itself (and Other Works)
by Val-Creative
Summary: Thirty Merthur smut fics ranging from Canon Era, Modern AU, Canon AU, Fairytale AU, Apocalypse AU, Hogwarts AU, and so on. Day 31: "Canon AU. Uther and Balinor's kingdoms have been at odds with each other for well over twenty years. Their sons have never met. Arthur doesn't even know what he looks like."
1. Rest Your Weary Bones

_Title: Rest Your Weary Bones_

_Content/Warnings: Fluff, Canon Era_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #1 "cuddling (naked)"  
_

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If it wasn't one thing, it was multiple other reasons Arthur was a potential failure.

Not enough restraint shown, being one. People expect so much of him. Arthur needed to be composed in the face of devastating tragedy and against hotheaded conflict.

He needed to be a hard worker, if not the _hardest_ worker of the lot. To be dedicated wholly to the values of his kingdom and to its people. To the knight's code. As the next monarchy, Arthur needed to remember his courtesy and esteem, his station above others and a _lifetime_ of protocol for his nobility.

But too much restraint proved ill. Any one man could take advantage of you.

Arthur could hear the low growl of his father's voice in his head, could envision Uther's scowl from memory as he pulled Arthur aside in the gallery: _You are the crowned prince of Camelot, my sole heir! How can you hope to win the melee acting SOFT? It won't be a training dummy you will be fighting!_

In truth, he had no interest in the melee tomorrow. In victory and glory.

What the crowned prince truly wanted, especially now… was a little peace of mind. And, unfortunately, it couldn't be without a certain missing idiot.

Arthur's chamber-door rattled open. He heard a hiss of an apology as his dining-table also rattled, like someone stumbled right into it.

He threw off his covers, sitting up.

"_Finally_! Where the hell have you been?" Arthur snapped, tension rippling off him. And naturally, Merlin had no sense of that.

"S'rry… some of us…"

Merlin stifled a loud yawn into a forearm, eyes crinkling shut.

"… have _your_ chores to do," he added. "I haven't had a moment to myself all _day_, thanks for asking."

"Right, of course," Arthur said. The dismissive tone had Merlin grunting at him, as he bent over to tug his muddied boots and woolen socks, and shucking off his jacket. "Have you hammered out the dents in my armour?"

"Yes, sire."

"Have you polished the weaponry?"

"Yes, sire."

Arthur wrinkled his nose, lip curling. "You reek of ale," he pointed out.

The next "yes, sire" came out automatically and without emotion and Arthur fought the urge to get up, completely naked as he was, and box one of Merlin's _stupid_, over-sized ears.

"_Mer_lin."

His eye-roll twitched Arthur's mouth to a frown. Merlin then regaled him (very irritably) with the tale of how an elder serving lad had a run-in with Merlin and manged to spill half a tankard on his clothes, but in truth, it was very hard to concentrate on what Merlin was babbling on about.

The yellowed glow of the candlelight took away the gaunt-pale of Merlin's features. It helped soften any roughly-made edges.

Arthur's eyes slid over Merlin's bare torso as his manservant continued undressing, over the hollows in Merlin's neck and the thin frame of his hips and legs.

He wasn't about to admit it out loud, but the sight of Merlin was both welcomed and appreciated—if Arthur's slowly hardening prick gave any indication. The bed shifted its weight as another occupant joined, Merlin snuggling down in the fur pelts and the blankets with him, groaning happily.

Merlin's hands brushed the surface of Arthur's chest. He shivered, but didn't push them.

"Gods, you're freezing," Arthur said, making sure it was less to do with concern, and more of a painfully obvious complaint.

Merlin's next breath hit his chin like a snorting huff.

"Some of us don't live in the highest room in the tallest tower," he mumbled.

Arthur shook his head. No, it wasn't likely he was going to get a decent answer out of Merlin while exhausted and talking rubbish.

It doesn't stop Arthur from pressing in close, feeling the chill on Merlin's skin and hears his teeth noisy in the semi-darkness. And hearing Merlin bemoan about how he'll _never_ be warm again; despite his lack of rest, this idiot still had the energy to whine about _more_ rubbish.

This… this is better. Just him and Merlin, their hearts, their exhales. Arthur's thoughts quieting. Merlin's dark hair smelling wet.

Underneath the stench of ale, and fainter of Gaius's herbs, it held a charge of atmosphere, like Merlin had calmly walked through a midsummer storm.

There was something _else_ too, clinging on… sometimes Merlin would send him an intense look across the room, and Arthur _swore_ that he felt the hairs on his arm stand on their ends. Even through the heavy padding, through the fabric of his tunics, his flesh tingled pleasantly.

Almost feeling a universal pull.

Like… they were meant for this…

Arthur's fingers grazed the line of hair under Merlin's navel, traveling down to his prick and gripping it slightly. Rolling his fingers against him until the foreskin went taut. _One_ part of Merlin always seemed warm, at least. A sudden groan from Merlin, cock thrusting once impulsively into Arthur's loose fist, could be no finer victory.

"How about it then?" he murmured, brushing lips to Merlin's earlobe. The answering groan, a bit longer, a bit deeper, heated Arthur's belly.

Fingers crept into blond hair, twisting in as if needing the stability.

"Ah, ah yeah, that's… brilliant."

Merlin sounded breathy to him, dazed-eyed. Arthur eyed him, features relaxed, speaking with traces of a gentler manner than he was accustomed too.

"… Merlin?"

"Hm?"

Arthur came forward and kissed Merlin, and it might have partly been an excuse to shut him up. He wanted lips roaming his, not to punish, not to absorb and submit entirely to him, but to know the other boy _wanted_ this as well. Merlin's teeth pinched on his bottom lip, as if demanding his attention, and Arthur fought down a chuckle rising.

He encouraged Merlin to fuck into his hand, whispering and remaining still as Merlin's hips canted into him. Slick fluid coated to Arthur's palm still gripping on, easing the slide.

Merlin's breathing quickened, panting against Arthur's mouth when they separated, and the fingers in Arthur's hair dragged nails into his scalp.

He didn't know where Merlin's other hand ended up, bunching up the sheets or clawing at his own hip—but the vivid imagining of Merlin reaching behind himself, teasing his arsehole open to a knuckle while Arthur had him by the prick could be enough to bring _himself_ release.

Merlin did come, shuddering and gasping to Arthur's throat, nudging his head back into the sensation of petting on his nape. Arthur held him through his stupor, letting go of Merlin's prick, an arm wrapping carefully to him.

The bliss, Merlin's bliss obvious in the flush on his cheeks and the sly smile, uncoils all that tension. All that Arthur kept inside him for hours.

"What about you?" came out raspy and Arthur grunted at him, another dismissive noise, through sleepier.

He burrowed down deeper to the warmed furs.

"Another time."

**.**


	2. In Love (Accidentally)

_Title: In Love (Accidentally)  
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_Content/Warnings: Dating, Romance, Modern AU, Friends To Lovers, Rough Sex  
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_30 Day Challenge Prompt: Day #2 "kissing (naked)"  
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**.**

He met Merlin in a flower shop, jumping over the counter, shoving him out of the path of a display of tumbling glass vases Merlin had knocked over.

In consequence, it landed Arthur with twenty-seven stitches and a new, very concerned friend who quit _The Rising Sun_ after a week, or maybe was fired.

Arthur couldn't recall.

He doubted that had been what happened, for numerous reasons. Merlin was far too clumsy for the job anyway.

Though, Arthur did enjoy the scent of orchids and lilies on him, lingering on Merlin's undershirt, and on his bunched up, green florist apron, when they met up in the late afternoon. Sometimes going out for fish and chips. Sometimes with mates to the pub. Sometimes alone in Arthur's flat—an expressionless Merlin fingering through pristine, vintage records.

He liked a lot about Merlin. How his hands took such great care in touching an object, arranging it carefully. Memorizing its shape. How Merlin took his coffee—not at all. Arthur loathed the smell and the taste, and it was reassuring to know someone else shared his resentment.

How before the idea planted in Arthur's mind, Merlin took the lead—cupping their mitten hands together, fingers knitting. He kissed Arthur so softly, so so _softly_ like Arthur was a wonder to him and it burned tears in his eyes.

It did turn out difficult to _acknowledge_ his… feelings. Always had been.

Merlin would watch Arthur's face go red, and laugh, soundless. His eyes gleaming and squinted until Arthur could hardly see a sliver of blue.

Even if Merlin couldn't say a word to him, couldn't hear an apology or a love song on the radio, they had everything they wanted.

He still could feel Merlin's laugh, like trembling, invisible warmth on him; Merlin's hands stroking twin paths of heat up his back as Arthur pinned him down beneath him, grinding hips.

Merlin's kisses making tiny, feathering pecks across the bridge of Arthur's nose, down his jaw. And then, Arthur would knee him purposely striking his abdomen in warning, mock-frowning when Merlin blew a noisy raspberry against his throat, with a shit-eating grin and all.

It wouldn't matter that Merlin was naked and kiss-bruised and plastered in Arthur's come, or that he himself was covered in noticeable red scratches all down the planes of his sun-golden shoulders and back… or that Merlin was simply the _best_ thing that had ever gotten Arthur hurt…

… if need be, he would tan Merlin's sorry hide for being such a blighter.

As nice as it was when Merlin's round, lily-white bum filled Arthur's hands.

**.**


	3. Destiny Itself

_Title: Destiny Itself  
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_Content/Warnings: Memory Loss, Canon Related, Grief/Mourning, Modern AU  
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_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #3 "first time"  
_

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**.**

Emerson E. was not a toy collector. Personally, he saw no use for them.

But he did adore his twin sister's little boy. Mordred believed unicorns were real (but far too shy for anyone to get close to, even in the deep, winter woods of Morgana's estate) and that the rainbows in the sky tasted like coloured candies from the vending machines at the movie theatre.

Mordred, bless his young, foolish optimism, also believed in heroes, in the great stories of knights and wizards and maidens fair.

So the next Christmas present had been a very rare antique _King Arthur toy_ from some popular, old telly program. Probably a special on the Beeb.

His nephew took a shining to it, prancing around the corridors and ordering his stuffed animals with his newest toy.

Morgana and her off-and-on-again boyfriend Agravaine had kissed Emerson's cheek and thanked him for coming by. He didn't know how the King Arthur ended up in his bag, but after a semi-frantic call from his twin, Emerson promised to return it during the weekend. The thirty-year-old had sighed to himself, chucking it onto the tattered sofa.

He was hungry, possibly for some leftover sausage-bean soup, but also needed to be laundry.

Emerson brushed the remaining snowflakes out of his hair, coming out of the bedroom having thrown dirty clothes into a bin. The stretch of ever-long silence had been difficult since Lance's death. There had never been a man with a kinder heart. Lance had been his closest friend, like a brother. Not just a uni roommate.

Lance had known about… the _strange_ occurrences that were common around Emerson. Hovering objects, major drops in temperature when Emerson was wrecked with stress or lost his temper—but Lance _knew_ and accepted him, and promised to keep it a secret.

And did so, right into his grave.

The one person he could share his fears with, his doubts about himself—gone. The loneliness was suffocating and Emerson almost prayed for a distraction, for someone who _understood_ him, would befriend him. Someone who wouldn't run for the hills if… Emerson had… a _strange_ occurrence.

And he nearly dropped his laundry bin on his feet when he found a man draped in bright yellow robes poking his sofa with a sword.

Emerson backed up a step, eyes rounding. "What the fuck… ?"

The bloke was _armoured_. Gauntlets, sabatons, vambraces, cuisses on his legs—the metal creaked audibly when the man's joints shifted.

A wide, crooked smile appeared on the man's—_oh god no where did the King Arthur toy go, oh no, no_—Arthur's face and he lowered Excalibur.

"Merlin!"

A coil of heat bunched in Emerson's chest, his breath shaking.

"You've alive," he muttered, eyeing the toy-now-man. "You can't be… "

Arthur looked down at himself, unimpressed by the billowing outfit and the Pendragon sigil glaring on the yellow. "Bit of a shock, I'll admit."

"No, no. You are _alive_." Emerson gaped, motioning awkwardly with his bin. "You are… a bloody talking action figure, how is this—wait, _MERLIN_?"

"Yes, Merlin. You."

Unlike the tiny action figure, King Arthur's hair was the color of pale corn-silk, and with no furry beard in sight.

Arthur looked … boyish. _Eternal_.

He didn't move back, only stiffened in place, appearing lost as Arthur's gauntlets touched Emerson's bony shoulders. "You don't remember," he said, as if stating fact. The chill of plated armour then cradled Emerson's face, as Arthur leaned in, his bold blue eyes sincere. "I can help you."

Emerson's lips felt numb on the surface. He didn't know what to do—hurtle this living stranger off and yell about how mad this was, close his eyes and wish him _away_, give into the lightheaded sensation creeping up the back of his head and pass out on the floor with his laundry bin now unended.

"… What don't I remember?"

"It'll be alright, Merlin," Arthur whispered, nodding. This close to him, Emerson was sure he could count each strand of light eyelash on him, every sun-browned freckle on Arthur's nose. "Just let me take it from here."

Merlin. _Merlin_.

The heat in his chest sprung free, overtaking and washing over him. The irises of Merlin's eyes faded into a shimmering vibrancy, his body shivering in anticipation. Arthur's mouth didn't taste like manufactured plastic, and neither did the rest of him. Salty-sweat and the tinge of iron, rolling against Merlin's tongue, as he dragged lips to Arthur's collarbone.

It was halfway out of his own jumper— blood pounding in his skull and moaning into Arthur's neck, already unbuckling the armour and pushing everything off— that Merlin… _Emerson_… whoever he was now was about to let himself be fucked by his nephew's Christmas present.

His first time with anyone and it was King _fucking_ Arthur of the Britons.

Not only that, but he wasn't supposed to be _real_.

They don't fuck. At least not yet.

Merlin can't figure out what the hell he wanted, let alone relax enough to prepare for a fat cock up his arse.

Arthur, golden and radiant, and most definitely _living_, swept the black crop of bangs from Merlin's forehead. His hips straddled by the opening of Merlin's hair-dappled legs, where Arthur stood shirtless between them.

"I've never know you to be an exceptionally bright thinker, Merlin," he said, less done in malice, but in amusement. Arthur's finger tapped Merlin's skin. "What is it? Speak your mind."

"I… _jesus_, am I really here?"

Arthur's expression softened at the doubtful, awed question. "Yes, I believe you are," he told him, firmly.

"… Are you?" Merlin asked, looking hopeful.

"_Yes_, you idiot."

"Oi," he snapped, "you try having two lifetimes banging around in here."

Merlin made a face, despite the warm, cordial kiss placed to the top of his head. He could make due with the usual glowing fragments of memories—of Emerson E's childhood, growing up with his sister, being in and out of the foster homes in London, getting a journalism major.

But then _these_ memories galloping in—running from cloaked men with axes through miles of woods, Gaius serving him dinner, fighting off Cockatrice while bound with chains on his knees, Freya and Gwaine and Kilgharrah and the Druids…

"They're all dead," Merlin whispered, hazy-eyed. "Everyone."

"But we're here."

"Because of you," Arthur said, fingers playing with Merlin's neck. "We're here because of _you_."

And it didn't manage to soften the blow, but hugging his arms around Arthur, feeling his arms hug in return, steadied him.

**.**


	4. Nerves Alight

_Title: Nerves Alight  
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_Content/Warnings: Voyeurism, Manhandling, Canon Era, Mildly Dubious Consent  
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_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #4 "masturbation"  
_

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**.**

"_Don't turn around_."

Merlin's heart thudded his ribcage. He wondered for a fear-stricken moment if it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

The warmth and nearness of another person came at Merlin's back, moved in, but no hands grabbed onto him, dragged him back.

"Don't," the voice ordered when Merlin sharply inhaled, beginning to remove his hands from the confines of his trousers. Even then his smalls were sopping.

"_Don't_," it repeated, no longer a harsh command.

A pair of lips touched in Merlin's hair.

"It's just me, Merlin."

Relief drained out the terror of being caught, of being off his guard crouching with his arse bared. Merlin whispered, face hot, "Sire."

He knew how Arthur managed to discover the tiny alcove. It wasn't difficult to figure out since the older man had been raised inside the castle since babe, ran from nurses down these corridors and likely hid in the winding passageways of the chambers and their antechambers.

How or _why_ he had been following Merlin was another matter entirely. He flushed again as Arthur's glove-clad hands settled on his waist, mortified.

When it went quiet, Merlin speculated if Arthur had ever glimpsed on other people through cracks of light, nerves alight with curiosity.

Enid, a serving girl often seen batting her eyes at a very timid Sir Erec, was now opening up her frumpy robes in front of Sir Leon, stepping out of them nude. Her reddish-brown in glossy curls to the middle of her back. The tops of her shoulders and her forearms burnt pink by the sun.

She whined, mouth relaxing as Sir Leon gathered her in his lap, his long, blood-dark prick disappearing between her thighs glistening. He kissed her, his tongue prodding and lathing the circle of her ruddy, full lips.

The smell of their copulation began hanging over the air, managing to trickle in through the slants of the barred wooden door Merlin hid behind.

Merlin let out a strangled, low noise, as if he were stifled for air. It may have been a tiny hiding place but he never had a problem with closed-off spaces. Even with someone else crowding him inside.

One of the gloves went to his mouth, avoiding Merlin's nose and silencing more noises, the material cool on contact and velvety-soft.

Despite himself, he could imagine one of Arthur's hands clamping down on the length of Merlin's prick, roughly stroking him off, chaffing him dry.

And within seconds, Merlin felt it stiffen up again.

"Is this where you go instead of the tavern…?" A hot, damp gust of breath in Merlin's left ear. Arthur chuckling in the dark. "This shouldn't surprise me. You can hardly keep your impertinence to yourself around your betters… why should you ever deny yourself pleasure?"

Arthur's other hand on Merlin's waist rucked up his tunic, to his chest, dragging leathered fingers over the prominent bones of Merlin's ribs.

Merlin nudged into the sensation, exhaling out his nostrils.

"Has anyone ever been with you like this, Merlin?" The hand on his chest vanished. Merlin's eyebrows bunched in, head swimming. Fingers then pinched down and twisted Merlin's flesh on his naked arse. "Answer me."

A wrecked, _euphoric_ cry strained itself into Arthur's glove to his mouth_._ Merlin shook his head wildly, the corners of his eyes watering.

"Oh god," Arthur groaned out, saliva-wet mouth plastering to Merlin's perspiring neck. Merlin replied with a slower nod this time.

For a reason Merlin didn't have the foggiest about because his hand was _still_ wriggled down his trousers while the king of Camelot acted like this should be ordinary to watch his manservant do—Arthur's gloved hand lowered, Merlin now being able to pant through his mouth.

Within the storeroom, Sir Leon grunted with each frantic skin-slapping thrust, matching the over-enthused, shrilling whimpers of Enid.

"Touch me," he murmured, gritting his jaw until Merlin's teeth ached.

Soon, the hand on Merlin's chest vanished, too. "_No_," Arthur sounded far too self-satisfied, and Merlin wanted very much to turn around and _punch _him in his gods-damn face. "You're going to bring yourself off like this, Merlin… with just the feeling of my breath on your neck."

A rumbling growl left Merlin's throat—whether it had been irritated or partly of arousal, it wasn't the time for him to guess.

Merlin tugged himself out, welcoming the lack of captivity, jerking himself at a slow pace, building it up, hearing the noises beyond the alcove and trying to find a similar rhythm.

He pulled back his slickened foreskin and thumbed over the ridge of cockhead with each pull. Arthur must have been paying attention to how Merlin's breathing labored, or perhaps he couldn't resist temptation within easy reach—Arthur's hands returned, without the feeling of buttery-smooth leather. They rested on Merlin's hips, occasionally stroking his arse.

"Very good, Merlin." The sigh of praise. Arthur's voice without emotional flatness curled Merlin's toes in his boots. "You're doing beautifully… "

"_Shut_ up," Merlin said, waspish, his muscles clenching where Arthur's fingers grip on and drive his narrow hips forward, right into his fist.

"I'm the king, Merlin. You can't tell me what to do."

"I just did, you overgrown cabbagehead," he replied, grinning stupidly big. Merlin tipped his head back, as Arthur pressed whole-bodied into him, thumb and forefinger working under Merlin's tunic, blindly searching out a nipple. The same time Merlin's nipple squeezed painfully, the orgasm rippled a cry from him, thankfully against his own hand.

Wringing himself, savoring the last twinges of a carnal gratification, hot fluid dribbled over Merlin's fingers.

Low murmurs filtered in from the storeroom, what sounded like clothes and robes being buckled on and rustling, and then nothing.

Arthur pawed the nest of dark hair at Merlin's sternum, fingering the tangles. He whispered nonsense, humming words against Merlin's throat.

"If you turn up missing for chores and Gaius mentions the tavern, am I to assume you will be skulking the grounds?" Merlin's didn't actually believe _skulking_ was the phrase Arthur meant to use, but gave a nod anyway.

"It's likely."

He sort of wished he could see Arthur's face in the dark, squinting up to those summery-blue eyes, when the next heal-filled chuckle left Arthur.

"I always knew there was something about you, Merlin."

**.**


	5. Nothing Personal

_Title: Nothing Personal  
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_Content/Warnings: Language, Modern AU, Zombie Apocalypse, Public Blow Jobs, Mild Gore  
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_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #5 "blowjob"_

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**.**

Even before the dead started rising, stumbling about and tearing off chunks of flesh off the screaming living, creating massive hordes of _infected_—

—Arthur pretty much already hated the world as it was.

It felt empty. Numb.

Everyone milling around each other, heads bent down to their mobiles and Kindles, disregarding all other signs of life.

Now the _emptiness_ was filled with hot, ratted gasping in the dark unlit corridors and signs of life were dreadfully, inescapably scarce.

He lost Morgana during the initial panic, watching from the crowded stairwell as her left arm had been wretched out of her socket. An undead mouth clamping over her pale throat. Arthur's stomach had lurched and his vision began to spin.

It was how he met Percival and his men—Arthur thrashing wildly in muscle-bulging arms suddenly pulling him away, as he bellowed at the top of his lungs for his sister. Bright blood gurgled weakly between Morgana's lips, and tears rolled fast down Arthur's reddening face.

He had been traveling since with Leon, Gwaine, and Percival for several months. They opted for the less known roads and woodland areas (Elyan had been bitten twenty miles back towards Chester; he asked calmly for one of the handguns to end it himself—and Lancelot had been stabbed to death by another group).

They were somewhere in backfuck country, but happened upon a lone strip mall. Arthur helped divide the task force in their circle, mentally cataloging what they needed.

He just didn't expect _signs of life_.

"Whoa, whoa," Arthur said aloud, holding up his free hand and the other grasping his hunting knife. Another man emerged from behind one of the mart pharmacy's stock cabinets. He pointed a rifle at the level of Arthur's forehead. "Take it easy."

Definitely not a face he was familiar with. Sharp cheekbones, black curled tufts of hair. Dark and grizzly facial hair, compared to Arthur's blond.

Arthur could say he was exceptionally better at hand-to-hand combat, but he felt naked without his pistol.

_Gwaine, you sodding fuck_, Arthur cursed silently.

"Turn right around, Gorgeous Man. There's nothing for you here."

Arthur's skin prickled oddly splendid at the nickname.

For God's sake…

"I need supplies," he explained, voice even, lowering his knife and his hand. The other man's lips twitched up. "Everyone does."

"I said… leave," came the reply, just as evenly toned, if not rumbling low and suggesting danger. The wide, charismatic _smile_ managed to disarm Arthur for just a split-second. But only so. "Honestly, it would be a damn near shame to put a bullet-hole in that face."

What was the other man saying about _gorgeous_?… He had a little competition with those plump, chapped lips and tender eyelashes.

Arthur fought off the urge to approach.

"You think you can?" he asked.

"You think I haven't killed before?"

"With your bare hands no." He shook his head at the armed man, who was looking more and more hilariously offended. Arthur's face breaking into a smirk. "I could take you apart with one blow."

"I can take you apart with less than that." The rifle waved in the air. But the man's forefinger removed from the trigger. "Fortunately for me."

Arthur got the impression that the man thought Arthur was funny, or _interesting_, or perhaps it was wishful thinking. Teeth sucked in a plump lip, scraping it raw. Pinkening it further, wetting the lip. Oh hell, Arthur felt the stirring of his hardening prick in his jeans. Not had a go with anyone in weeks, and it had to be _this_ nutter.

"It's nothing personal, mate." The man's forefinger slid back to the trigger, and his stormy blue eyes narrowed in grim decision. Arthur's body tensed. "There's sick children and elderly in my camp and I'm one of the only people left still willing to help, understand?"

Arthur's heart threaded a painfully thin rhythm. His mouth cotton-dry.

"M… My name's Arthur."

"I don't care who you are, who you _were_ before this hellhole erupted," the man snapped, jaw clenching. "Now, _get_—"

He hesitated, frowning, watching cautiously as Arthur swayed in place.

"Oi?… Gorgeous Man… ?"

**.**

**.**

The next thing Arthur knew he was lying on his back, eyes fluttering open, receiving paracetamol tablets by mouth and a swig of a water bottle.

"You've got a fever."

Arthur winced up, grunting in complaint as long, rough hands examined the half-swollen gash on his tricep. The rifle abandoned on the floor beside them. The man with the dark facial hair wrapped fresh gauze around the wound. "There go my last supplies, _prat_," he muttered.

"S'not my name," Arthur muttered back.

"_Arthur_, you said. I heard you." The man smiled again down on him, no malice to be seen, comfortably guiding Arthur's arm across his stomach. "Arthur like… the Arthur _Pendragon_?"

"Penn, actually."

"You need a Merlin," he pointed out, chuckling at Arthur's look. "Come off it. Every Arthur needs a Merlin, don't you think?"

Arthur greedily swallowed down a mouthful of water, sitting up from the man's lap.

"And are you my Merlin then?" he asked sarcastically, before realizing he meant to speak the comment in Arthur's own head.

Luckily, it only earned him another chuckle.

"Yah," Merlin agreed, cheeks dimpling. He patted Arthur's shoulder cheerfully. "Nothing looks infected, or _infected_, by the way. Just remember to keep checking."

Arthur eyed him.

"Well you seem like a decent bloke, asides from those horrendous ears of yours and questionable moral."

Merlin poked his side with the butt of his rifle.

"Watch it, mate," he teased. "You may be worth saving, but I'm not against knocking you out." Arthur pushed the rifle away with his hand.

"Listen. We both have people to look after," Arthur insisted, earnest. "We split what's left in the pharmacy. Half each. Deal?"

Merlin stare at Arthur's grimy, outstretched hand, and raised both of his eyebrows

"Fine," he said, thoughtfully. "I take the corticosteroids or I shoot you."

Arthur shrugged, getting on his feet.

"Suits me."

They shuffled around the closed-off, white aisles in mostly hushed tones, keeping their ears open for any new racket from the mart's exits. Occasionally tossing each other different medications and first-aid items. Merlin zipped up his full gym bag, kneeling down where Arthur stood rummaging through a glass cabinet.

"You ever, uh… " Merlin's tone sounded nonchalant. "… have it off?"

Arthur's fingers tipped over a clear vial of antibiotics. He scrambled to right it, and considered his actions, nicking it for his pocket.

"For the hell of it… ?"

Arthur cleared his throat, flushing.

"I'm not following… " he said.

A yelp caved out of him, as Merlin's fingers curled around the band of Arthur's jeans, tugging him forward.

"S'rry, let me clarify," Merlin said, grinning and leaning in to wrap his teeth around the jean button. Within moments it popped open. Merlin's teeth went for the tiny dangle of zipper, yanking it apart. By then, Arthur felt so hard he feared his cock smacking into the side of Merlin's face when it got free.

But it didn't— Arthur's cock slipped out with the aid of Merlin's hands and hung midair with pendulum-weight, the tip brushing Merlin's chin.

Merlin's tongue peeked out, lapping curiously at the slit.

"Shite, yes," Arthur said, groaning, cupping the back of Merlin's head. "Yes, do it."

"You're such a prat," Merlin breathed out, amused.

He widened his mouth and engulfed Arthur's cock in moist warmth. He was _amazing_. What Merlin couldn't fit, he massaged the length in slow, uncoordinated strokes.

Arthur thudded his head back against the doors of the glass cabinet, once or twice. He jerked his hips up as Merlin's thumbnail ran along the cord of vein under his prick.

_Jesus_Maryandevery_fucking_saint—

Getting his cock sucked did allow Arthur to become hyper-aware of his surroundings. When he heard a crack outside the pharmacy door, he grabbed onto Merlin's hair, stilling in him place. Drool leaked over Arthur's cock, gathering and dripping onto his balls. His partner muffled a confused noise, but obeyed.

When he was certain no one was there, any invaders dead or alive, Arthur's fingers petted Merlin's scalp apologetically, encouraging him forward. Merlin choked out a laugh, letting the hum of his throat muscles go straight into Arthur's veins. The _heat_ was unbearable.

The fact they were _doing_ this, surrounded by strips of gore, smelly dead remains and old, browned stains of blood on the pharmacy walls… truly proved how much the world _changed_.

Merlin slicked the precum quickly around his mouth, dragging up Arthur's shaft, moaning when Arthur's hips rocked, fucking his mouth deeper. Fingers buried into the green-plaid of Arthur's shirt, clawing for purchase. "Merlin… fuck, don't," he warned, the crest of his pleasure riding to meet him and the other man ignoring him.

And it was too late for a second warning, as it rushed over him, filling up Merlin's throat with molten heat.

Arthur's eyelids fell shut when plump lips slipped off him, kissing gently at Arthur's quivering thigh.

"_It's been nice knowing you, my lord_," whispered centimeters from him.

He opened his eyes after a moment passed.

Arthur's gym bag left untouched.

Merlin and his own bag vanished, along with the artillery rifle.

**.**


	6. Don't Leave Me Behind

_Title: Don't Leave Me Behind  
_

_Content/Warnings: Angst, Hogwarts AU, Magical Reveal, Humor, Underage (15+) Sex  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #6 "clothed getting off"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Ever since Merlin was born, he told Arthur—his Mum believed he was special.

And of course that's _silly_—that's what all Mums said about their kids, or so Arthur had been led to believe with his friends.

He couldn't ask his Mum if that was true. Ygraine de Bois had been dead since Arthur was born.

Guess that may have not made him special…

At age eight, however, it became apparent to both of them just how special Merlin was. But it had to do with their favorite hiding place.

Namely, a spindly oak tree at the bottom of a hill, proudly dotted between the field connecting the town line. Merlin lived on the outskirts with cheap housing for rent; Arthur lived surrounded by private woods in a French-renaissance mansion with seven giant bathrooms and a dumb waiter.

Merlin often took to pouting frustrated, about Arthur childish teasing, about not knowing what a _dumb waiter_ was. (Arthur didn't know what it was either—but he wasn't about to let _Merlin Emrys_ get the upper-hand.)

The distance in the sunny barley field wouldn't hinder either of them.

Both eight-year-olds had been idly flipping pences against the bark of the oak tree when Merlin stopped what he was doing, closing his little fingers around his coin.

He gasped softly, opening his hand.

"_Arthur_!" Merlin's face crinkled into an excited grin as he looked down.

Instead of a rusty-colored coin in Merlin's palm, a tiny flower had begun to appear flourishing with a long stem and pale blue petals.

"Whoaah," Arthur breathed out, grabbing Merlin's hand to inspect. Instead of feeling panic at the unknown, his boy-features awed. "How did you do that? Was that a magic trick?" Arthur then gave the other boy a suspicious look. Merlin was learning magic trick and not teaching _him_?

Hrm, maybe Merlin's father had been a magician. Merlin didn't know anything about his father. Or maybe he had been part elephant too.

Arthur snickered at his own joke, watching as Merlin's ears blushed.

"I—I don't know!" the other boy said. "I just thought about it and…"

Mouth creasing, Arthur squeezed his hand around his own coin, also squeezing his eyes shut furiously. _Make a flower. Make. a. flower._

_No. Make a ice cream sundae._

He opened his hand, disappointed to see the same rusty-colored coin.

"How come you can do it and I _can't_?"

Merlin shrugged, lips pressing into a smashed line.

He plucked up the pale blue flower, holding it out to Arthur and smiling enormously. "You can have it if you want," he murmured.

Arthur's voice went squeaky high-pitched, as he said indignantly, stomping a foot on the ground, "You don't give your friends a _flower_!"

Merlin looked confused.

"Then what do I give you?"

"A—A," he sputtered. "A _hug_! Not a _flower_, Merlin! That's stupid!"

"Okay!" Merlin crowed out, tackling Arthur onto his side to the grass, laughing when Arthur laughed and wrestled him onto his back.

**.**

**.**

He promised to keep Merlin's secret. It was _theirs_—and no one else's.

Until, one day, a snowy white owl perched outside Merlin's bedroom window, hooting for attention.

"It's a letter," he told Arthur, eleven-year-old cheeks beaming. Arthur scrutinized the loopy print. "It's a school for _magic_! I really have magic!"

"Oh," Arthur said flatly. His chest felt really itchy and hot.

Merlin was nearly bouncing in place, hands reaching to grasp a naked, spindly branches overhead. "Mum said not to tell anyone but it's gonna start soon! What if you get one, too?"

Arthur's breath caught at the possibility, chest tight. Him?

"I want you to come with me, Arthur. _Please_!"

**.**

**.**

When Arthur ran home, he glued himself to a window.

At the slightest glimpse of a flying bird, Arthur jumped up from where he was with knees burrowed to pillows, nearly barreling to the mail-slot.

"Stop _scuffing_ up my floors—Morgause just cleaned!" came a yell.

His step-mother gave him a deeply seething look, clapping her hands loudly in Arthur's direction as he were no more than a pesky animal to be subdued. _They aren't yours_, Arthur thought stubbornly to himself. _It's Father's house—MY house._

Catrina Tregor huffed unladylike through her nose, as he ducked away.

"Your son can be rather dreadful about his manners, Uther," she said, her delicate nose held high, puffing up her chest importantly. It reminded Arthur of one of those big hairy gorillas at the zoo, like perhaps she was about to pound her manicured fist into her breast and leap over the dinner table, screeching. "Did you not _hear_ a word I just said to you?"

"Yes, of course, pet," Uther responded with cold stoicism, not sparing a look over his newspaper.

She huffed again, tossing her hands up. But this time her rouged lips curled spitefully in a vile grin.

"If you let this sort of rampant, _delinquent_ behavior continue, the next thing you know he'll be off to St. Brutus's Secure—"

Uther's fist slammed down, rattling silverware. Arthur flinched at the bay window, eyes firmly on the burning orange horizon. "I will die before _allowing_ our family name to be dragged through the mud—"

"Oh, Uther dear," she cooed, stroking his arm. "It need not come to that."

Arthur gritted his teeth together, slapping his hands over his ears and swallowing down the lump in his throat. He hunched in, facing his back to everyone else, staring with desperate hope into the clouds blackening. A great rumble of thunder sank his hopes. Droplets of water pattering to the glass.

He stared, and stared, until his eyes went cross-eyed.

"Arthur?" Morgause patted the little boy's shoulder, noticing his sleepy head-tilt. "Come on, let's put you to bed, sweetheart," the nanny whispered.

He liked Morgause. She had pretty brown eyes and tickley hair and sang him lullabies when Arthur was sick. She also told him stories about Mum. They had been very good friends before Arthur was born.

Arthur dutifully took her hand, biting on his quivering lip in silence and aiming the bay window with one last glance. Maybe tomorrow…

**.**

**.**

During the next few summers, instead of spending it waiting at the bottom of the hill, Arthur ventured out of the town limits with his mates.

He remembered a weekend at thirteen with his lips roaming some girl's tet, high as fucking anything, sore and likely a bit hungover.

Before Arthur knew it, he had blinked into the eye of a tomorrow.

And he was yelling at Merlin, grimacing and swaying, a copious amount of bourbon in his fifteen-year-old veins. "You're a _freak_, Emrys!"

Merlin's hands stiffened onto his textbook: _Reviewing Summoning Charms_. He didn't move from leaning against the old oak tree.

"And you're pissed off your arse," he said blandly. Thin rays of light haloed Merlin's head when it bowed and his dark locks looked criminally soft—Arthur's fingers twitched at his sides. "Go home, Arthur."

"_Everyone_," Arthur wiped at his alcohol-sticky mouth, and then wiped at his eyes stinging and hurting. "Everyone k-knows it," he muttered.

"I don't care what anyone else thinks, have you ever thought of that?"

The familiar twinge of loneliness clutched at Arthur's heart.

"It's unnatural."

"I was _born_ like this. That's the most natural reason I've ever thought of." Merlin's voice rose, and finally, _finally_…he was getting a decent reaction.

Arthur egged him on. "Sorcerers go to hell," he said, fighting off slurring his words. "You pra'tice magic, and you won't go to he'ven—so."

"Oh, right. Because you're so _concerned_ about my well-being, you prick," Merlin said, a nasty expression twisting his face. He slammed his book shut, throwing it down. "You've _ignored_ every letter I sent you. Avoided me this long and for what? You couldn't stand the fact I was different from you?"

Merlin's expression fell away, realization and disgust clouding it.

"Or was it because you were jealous?" he asked, slowly. Arthur's hands shook.

"Arthur de Bois not being _better_ than someone else, oh what a goddamn travesty—"

"Just shut up, Merlin," he whispered, face growing hot under the collar.

Merlin's nostrils flared as he got up, squaring off with Arthur, his voice low, "I fucking _tried_. At least I can sleep with my conscious." Merlin grinned, but it was anything but full of the radiant warmth Arthur knew. "What are you sleeping with these days…? Does it smell like your own bullshit?"

With a hard jerk of multistriped jumper, Arthur had the other teenager pressed to the oak tree, a leg to Merlin's thigh and solid column of forearm digging to Merlin's neck.

Something dark flashed in the blue of Merlin's eyes, like _instinct_.

"Go on then," Arthur said, taunting. But for all his anger, he felt it drain slowly out of him. Leaving the emptiness. "Why don't you teach me a lesson? You know you want to use your _special_ magic against me, don't you?"

The mouth in front of him turning to an unyielding line, and Arthur wanted to push to it, slot their lips together, open apart and soften Merlin's lips.

"No, I don't." Merlin admitted, maintaining the air of_ control_ even with the potential of a choked-off air supply. "Whatever twisted notion you have in your head… I'm not a monster."

The amazement coming off Merlin, from his tone, loosened Arthur's grip.

"I can do things I never imagined before was possible, Arthur. I can replicate a healing potion. I can transmute an object into a beetle. I can _fight_ monsters," he insisted, eyes widening. "But I… I can't let go of how I think of you." Merlin searched him, trying to follow Arthur's eyes dodging him. "I wanted to do all that _with_ you. You kept my secret, you—"

The rest of his sentence muffled against a fleeting kiss.

"You really do need to learn to shut up, Merlin," he murmured knowingly, lips tracing heat and sensitive touch to Merlin's. Arthur's hands bracketing his face.

Merlin chuckled into another kiss, somewhat nervous, and slipped his fingers up Arthur's jacket, grinding back to the press of their bodies.

He thought about the taste of stale cigarettes, about flesh and sweat, about pale blue flowers growing from Merlin's hands—breathing faster, quicker. Arthur licked the jut of Merlin's throat,under an earlobe, aggressively pushing his hand to feel the delicious spasm of Merlin coming inside his trousers. Just from rutting back into him.

Arthur's ears picked up the deep, filthy noise, of Merlin letting himself go. He held him upright and to the tree.

Fingers tousled in Merlin's ebony hair.

Much, much _softer_ than he imagined.

_Brilliant, you're brilliant, sorry, sorry, m'sorry_—and the boy he had loved and hurt and ached for longer than Arthur knew—Merlin snorted gently with his cheek to Arthur's shoulder.

"Now who needs to shut up," he replied, fondly.

**.**

**.**

Arthur found himself caving after a long miserable holiday. He marched himself across the barley field to Merlin's house, politely questioning a bemused Hunith on how the wizarding mailing system actually existed.

**.**

**.**

At King's Cross Station, Merlin claimed the entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters was a brick wall ("but you wouldn't be able to spot it with a thicker head like yours, clotpole")… and Arthur half-tuned him out, smiling, hands entwining to Merlin's green and silver uniform-tie.

**.**


	7. Emrys and Pendragon: Witch Hunters

_Title: Emrys and Pendragon: Witch Hunters  
_

_Content/Warnings: Blood, Fairytale AU, Crossover, Romantic Friendship, Action/Adventure, Fisting  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #7 "dressed/naked (half dressed)"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

The situation is perhaps more catastrophic than he first assumed.

Merlin's chest hits into the edge of a wooden block, knocking a yelp out of him. He had been dragged to the top of the leveled platform, right in bloody mid-day, encouraged on by the shrieking voices of the masses.

He grunts, shaking his head wildly out of the fumbling grip of a stranger only before it returns _stronger_, ripping at his hair, throbbing his scalp.

The town sheriff kneeling above him bellows on about _heathens_! and _sorcery at work here_! and a whole host of driveling nonsense that half-tempts Merlin to conjuring a dagger, not to attack the townsfolk—but for jabbing his cerebellum, because it's the same _pointless_ mania that has gotten countless innocents hurt before him.

And, honestly? Merlin would not like that to be the last thing he hears.

They bent him over, Merlin's chin thumping over gore-stained wood. Great—just _great_. No trial. Straight to the chopping block already.

Lucky for his precious cognitive functions, a bolt flies out, embedding into the shoulder of one of the sheriff's men and pitching him off his feet. The axe he had been raising tumbles back into the crowd, eliciting more shrieks and terrified rushing to avoid its freshly sharpened blade.

Arthur comes strolling up the platform like a damn hero, teeth handsome and smile a touch wicked, a fully-formed image of arrogance and leisure.

With his hand not holding Merlin's crossbow, he fires off his hand-held machine gun, popping off a round of a couple into the sky. The crowd falls silent, eyeing him with apprehension and fascination.

"Unhand him," Arthur declares, smile thinning. He points it to the now enraged sheriff.

Before Merlin can warn his stupid, _braggart_ ass, Arthur detects the creaking on the platform behind him, whipping the butt of his gun into the face of another man, cracking nasal bone and spraying a film of red into the air. Merlin winces as the man starts crying, gargling.

Arthur wipes his own nose with the back of his glove, as if dealing with a rather annoying itch.

"I won't ask again," he says, a little more stern.

Merlin's arms return to him, though with a sudden, hard forward shove that rattles his jaw. He lets out a startled, open-mouthed noise as Arthur's fingers wretch up his collar, pulling him back onto his feet.

"Good people of Balor!" Arthur shouts. "My name is Pendragon, and this man here with me is my servant Emrys." He claps Merlin's arm for good measure, rocking the other man off his heels. Merlin resists shooting him a withering glare. "A man you were prepared to behead under false suspicions. If you put aside these quarrels, we would like to help you."

"Don't need the likes of _you_!" comes a snarl from below.

"We believe you do," Arthur says, not batting an eye. "Members of your families have been spirited away into your forest, never heard from again." A chorus of agreement murmurs, yet the faces of the townsfolk remain unfriendly. "This evil can be contained and it can be defeated."

"Yur them Witch Hunters from Essetir, ain't ya?"

A daunting shudder launches up Merlin's spine. _Witch Hunters_.

What a revolting and eerily ironic title. Hunting your own kind. There was some circle of hell waiting for him, but Merlin isn't sure for what crime.

"Emrys and I have been hunting those who practice the dark arts from all corners of Albion. You will find none more proficient."

"You and your _servant_ have been causing trouble everywhere you go," the sheriff calls out, his complexion purpling. Hot spittle flying from his lips. He slashes a finger to Arthur who had lowered his gun, clicking on the safety. "I want _you_ out of my town by nightfall, or you will suffer dire consequences."

His beady, malice-glittering eyes focus on Merlin.

"It's too late for the boy," he mumbles. The tip of the sheriff's finger landing on him. "He must be condemned. If not beheaded, then by the fire… "

Arthur's eyes narrow at the unabashed amount of glee.

"Under what circumstances is he guilty?" he asks.

"_I know a sorcerer when I SEE one, you dull-eyed bastard_!"

At the insult, Merlin watches the tension snap in Arthur's neck, veins bulging. "Stop," he whispers, slapping a palm over Arthur's jerkin. Merlin's hand keeps to his partner's abdomen, his diaphragm heaving.

Two of the sheriff's men lug away the unconscious man and the other still crying, nose bleeding profusely into his cupped hands.

"What evidence can you present that he is _NOT_ guilty?"

"No witch can hide their true nature, and those who can have been long since dead," Arthur explains, taking Merlin and facing him to the townsfolk. He taps under Merlin's chin gently, signaling his chin to lift.

Merlin forces down a rising smirk. He tries schooling his expression impassive, even in the wake of so many hostile, _frightened_ people.

Arthur flashes a row of Merlin's gums to the crowd of onlookers, peeling off Merlin's woolen gloves and showing off his pink, scrubbed fingernails. "Their eyes burn yellow, always," Arthur says in warning, examining Merlin's profile, his clear blue eyes. "The power of the magic inside them is too unstable for a concealment enchantment. They _can't_ hide it."

"A grand white witch can," the sheriff counters, beginning to look gleeful again at the very realistic prospect of burning Merlin alive on a straw pile.

"Those exposed as a _Grand White Witch_ can. That is true." Arthur replies musingly, stroking fingers over a tanned cheek. "If one were among us… but you would need further proof…"

Merlin mentally groans. Oh hell, what—?

His partner throws up an arm, clasping onto a long, braided chain of silver with a transparent crystal dangling from it.

"This is a necklace from the Castle of Fyrien—one of the only true relics left of ancient witch-hunting!" Arthur roars. No twitch of lying in the absolute conviction of his voice. Merlin has to give him credit—it's a _decent_ lie. "It was forged in the black mountains of… Isgaard. And I can assure you, it burns hot in the presence of a Grand White Witch!"

Merlin finds himself thrust in the face with the crystal, having it bang to his forehead. He blinks at nothing particularly, mildly annoyed.

When no glowing occurs, and when Merlin's eyes do not flicker to any strange formidable color, the town's spectators erupt to cheering.

**.**

**.**

The local inn welcomes them. Getting past the initial '_you die for existing_' phase, Merlin thought it was a cozy place to live. If he had to settle down.

Or maybe he was just fond of the bushels of wildflowers outside the inn.

Arthur pours himself a jug of mead, sighing. He glances at the dusty map unrolled on the tabletop and then glances at Merlin, hand resting on the pommel of his sword absently before doing his belt. Out of all their weapons to be used in defense, in hunting, Arthur's sword was the favorite. For Arthur, anyway. Guns were used for emergencies.

Such as earlier. _Ugh, _damn. Merlin takes the sword and belt from him, placing it on the crudely-made table of their inn room.

"I'm starting to believe you do this on purpose," Arthur says, muttering.

Merlin's face twists into a look of contempt.

I do _not_," he argues, frowning when Arthur's mouth peaks to a smirk. Better to laugh at a near-death experience than wallow, he supposes. But still. "This time was not my fault. I was out patrolling the bazaar alone, minding my _own_ business as usual—"

"And someone just _happened_ to see you perform magic, was it?"

There isn't outrage in how Arthur states it. If anything—exasperation. This isn't the first time Merlin had been met with accusations from locals.

"No, someone couldn't take 'no' for an answer," Merlin says.

Arthur curls a lip at him, at Merlin's overly furious tone.

"What on earth does that mean?"

Merlin makes a quiet, dismissive tone.

"… Nothing," he lies.

He knows he's not a good liar. Not like Arthur.

And unfortunately, Arthur knows him too well by now. How Merlin's exhales hitch, how going _quiet_ wasn't a very good sign concerning him.

"What happened?"

Arthur's chair scrapes the grubby floor. His boots echoing against hard stone. Merlin's wool, dark blue hood falls back as Arthur grabs his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "Merlin, _what_ happened?" he insists, searching his expression.

The switch from their public identities—Emrys, the fool servant boy, to _Merlin—_catches Merlin rapt and vulnerable. Knots his stomach, and releases.

A tailor apprentice, a nasty and weaselly lad going by Cedric, had purposely followed Merlin down three streets. He finally attempted to chase him to a more secluded region and threatened to have Merlin 'good and ready for him'. Not appreciating the lecherous intent, Merlin went for his crossbow strapped on him, and was struck across the back of the head with a rock. One of Cedric's friends discarded it, laughing and kicking away Merlin's crossbow from the woozy man's reach.

Which then led to Merlin being dragged through the street that mid-day.

The bruise likely plastered underneath dark curls had stopped aching.

"I'm alright, I swear it," Merlin says, meaning to reassure him, to rid the glint of worry. He holds onto Arthur's hands. "Which is more than I can say for the clod who couldn't keep his dirty mitts to himself."

There's _emotion_ Merlin can't believe he sees in Arthur's features, when he stares at Merlin like he's absolute, like Merlin is _wonders_ never known outside this existence and revered.

Arthur's knuckle traces a phantom line down Merlin's cheek.

"Should have known better…"

"You shot him with the bolt," Merlin informs him, softly.

"_Good_," Arthur says between a murmur and a low, cranky grumble. He nuzzles against Merlin's receiving lips, pressing slow and warm kisses to contours. The sort of kissing that gets Merlin's limbs water,y gets his heart soaring.

He touches Arthur's wrist, sweeping over the dark blond hairs. Merlin tugs playfully at the crystal necklace on Arthur's neck.

"Isn't that the healing amulet I gave you?" he asks, pleased.

Arthur ignores the comment, letting Merlin go and returning to the scraps of inked maps overlapping each other. He presses a finger to a blot.

"Now that the mayor has regained his bloody wits, he's been gracious enough to open the vaults of historical records. Similar disappearances nearly ten years apart from each other, going on for six centuries."

Arthur's fingertip hovers over _Forest of Balor_, and Merlin doesn't like how much ink had been used to scribble out a caricature of it.

"We have been ferreting out this beast for leagues," he says, grimly. Arthur's broad shoulders flexing as he leans down, palms flattening to the elm table. "We've lost track for a few of the passing years, but we're _this_ close now."

"And the missing townsfolk?" Merlin reminds him, deliberately. "We're going to return them to their families as well, aren't we… ?"

The dim light off a taperstick casts shadows to Arthur's face.

"_If_ we can, Merlin."

**.**

**.**

Arthur is a great deal of things, but he is not without compassion.

The human heart naturally bears flaws, but Arthur came to him as pure, thundering radiance. He lays a hand upon Merlin, to his elbow at the tavern, to his hip and his brow in private—and there are moments where Merlin's senses reel themselves dumbfounded and inept, and _wanting_ him.

There is no _evil_ in this man. Not a flyspeck.

And Merlin can not _be_ anything else but a force of good. He can not stray from the path of light, lest his own heart blacken to its core.

The flaws of magic without a _human_ heart are simple to understand, really—it easily corrupted itself. But that… that is the _problem_.

Bright blue sparks hover out from Merlin's pale fingers, his magic warping and shaping into visible energy. His hands blue orbs.

To possess the heart of a Grand White—_Warlock_—is invaluable.

A heart sought to be feared. And to be protected.

But not a heart to be loved.

In any case, Merlin's heart is the _key_ to all things in creation.

**.**

**.**

A handful of people turn up to question Arthur, when both witch hunters stop by for gathering information. To Merlin's frustration, they end up giving more than receiving it.

They ask about the more dangerous and fearless adventures, about killing witches and the proper methods, and plainly admiring Arthur.

Others sneer distrustful at him, and sneer at Merlin hidden by his long hood.

"I wouldn't underestimate my companion." Arthur flashes Merlin a hearty grin, and one of the nearby women giggles behind her dainty hand. "Emrys has a keen eye and tracking abilities unparalleled to any man I've ever encountered. He's managed to lead Nemeth's entire army through the tunnels of Andor without a single death by Wildddeoren."

The tavern-keeper's wife listening in on the conversation scoffs.

"That's not possible," she says, protesting, rubbing a dirtied rag on the counter.

Several men hoot and one even boldly slaps Merlin's shoulder, but he endures it for the sake of appearances. Play the fool, _Emrys_.

"Tell that to Nemeth," Arthur quips, earning him an uproar of drunken laughter.

A knee presses softly to Merlin's thigh under the table, the weight comforting and familiar. Merlin's hood shields his bemusement.

"I trust this man with my life, and I vow it to him," Arthur says, not bothering to hide his pride. And Merlin's heart _burns_ hot.

**.**

**.**

They discover a ragged, little girl with little yellow-glow eyes.

Arthur spots her first, moving instinctively to part the woodland shrubbery and advance, and Merlin growls out a "_no!_" with all of his teeth baring. Arthur's eyes glare back, but he removes his hand from his sword, halting.

She merrily hums a tune, having enchanted baby salmon from the river, making them hover safely in small, floating water globes.

Merlin taps a finger to his lips in a '_shush_' motion when the little girl sees him approaching the glade, clapping her hands over her mouth gasping, eyes filling with tears.

He drops his pistol, offering her a kind smile. "What's your name, love?"

"Freya," she whispers, meekly.

Merlin crouches down, brushing a stray, warm tear from her face. "Freya, no harm will come to you while I'm here. You have my word."

"… You're the Witch Hunter." Her shoulders tremble. "_Please_ don't kill me!" she sobs out, wrapping her bare, chubby arms to Merlin's waist and hugging him fiercely. "I won't do it again! I _won't_! I'll be good!"

He cup the back of her head, leather-clad fingers resting in wavy tangles of dark hair. Merlin feels her sobbing harder, and bites his lip.

"No harm will come to you," he repeats, voice breaking.

"_The same cannot be promise for you_."

The little girl in Merlin's arms morphs away, features elongating and scaling, her body growing monstrously large and belly soft with leopard fur. He hears Arthur screaming his name, a painful chill running up him. What feels like hot blood leaks and spurts out, out from Merlin, as fangs sink into him, as a weak, high cry rips out of Merlin's throat.

His vision spins, whitens. The next thing he senses is Arthur over him, colorless as the lumpy porridge from this morning, breathing fast.

Arthur's hand weighs down on the crest of Merlin's head.

"No, you can't," he says frantically, gaping at the blue of the woolen material against Merlin's chest gleam liquid-black. "No. Merlin, stay with me. Stay _with me_, you idiot!"

"The… Questing Beast…"

Merlin's lips feel numb on the surface, cracked dry. He sounds far away, lightheaded and murmury, floating deep above clouds.

"_is_…"

"It's real, Merlin." Arthur nods, his face grimacing and wet. His hand squelches the chest-wound, skin coating with Merlin's lifeblood.

It's _real_… the reason they arrived in Balor… for Arthur's…

Merlin's eyes roll shut.

**.**

**.**

Long centuries before the Questing Beast had been hatched from its egg, craving destruction and a tender palate of flesh, before magical creatures had reason to flee…

… There had been a court sorcerer.

Beloved dearly by his king and his queen, trusted by the royal counsel, he watched over Odin's kingdom from sickness and invaders.

In celebration of this time of peace, King Odin wished to conceive sons—blood _heirs_ to his powerful lineage. But his queen could not bear him any.

King Odin then summoned his court sorcerer, demanding that _magic_ answer his whims, and to his greedy desires.

But the court sorcerer advised him against tampering with the balance of life and death. Driven by his selfish nature, King Odin threatened his very dear friend. And the court sorcerer had no other choice but to obey the commands of his lord and master, spending his nights poring over his books and casting fertility spell.

The queen soon grew round with child, much to the delight of the rest of the kingdom. But the son Odin longed for was born from her… grey and dead.

As predicted, the balance of nature had not been met, rejecting the spell.

King Odin's grief for the unborn child, for the loss of his wife throwing herself mad from the castle's bell-tower wailing, manifested into savage rage for the one he viewed responsible.

News spread quickly of treason, whispers of _black magic_ and _devils_ and the court sorcerer's execution, and Merlin… vanished.

Like smoke trickling off embers.

**.**

**.**

"It's been luring townsfolk in the guise of a child," comes a familiar voice in his hearing. Merlin groans, lifting an arm and pulling himself from lying down. Bandages itching.

Arthur wrings out a damp cloth from a basin of water, having already seated on the cot.

"You should have let me handle it," he adds, icily.

The cloth aims purposely at Merlin's face, plastering wet to a cheek.

Instead of arguing with him, the Grand White Warlock chuckles humorlessly.

"Where's the fun in that?" Merlin stretches drowsily, rubbing at the old bandages. Not that old. There's a dark crust of blood on it. Crusty wound. That explains the itching. "How long was I asleep for?"

Arthur's face goes a sort of comically murderous.

"Your… HEART _stopped_!"

"Same difference," Merlin tells him. He never did understand how Arthur could manage to forget Merlin was an immortal creature of magic. He avoids the empty jug heaved at his head, as it bounced off the wall. "_Is_ that really necessary… ?…"

"I _lost_—!" Arthur's expression draws to a crumbling. He grits his teeth.

Merlin examines him as Arthur gets up, turning his back to him and rubbing his hands over his face. The orphaned boy he first encountered in that forest outside Essetir's kingdom, who still carried the sword forged in a dragon's breath and _spared_ Merlin's own life—that boy never left.

"I'm not your family, Arthur," he says, calmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

In less than a handful of paces, Arthur's across the bedchamber, yanking Merlin whole-bodied towards him and crushing their lips together. Arthur's tongue licking and pushing in as Merlin's mouth yields to it. A growling noise escapes Arthur, vibrating against the surface of Merlin's lips.

"Your trousers are filthy," he says. "Take them off."

"Take off _yours_," Merlin retorts, grinning. His insolence sets off Arthur's lust and impatience further, teeth nipping down hard under Merlin's chin.

Merlin swallows a moan, fingers scrambling to undo the bandages he doesn't need. The flesh on his chest milky and smooth, unmarred by earlier wounds. While he's half dressed, Arthur's straddling him, clad in his padded, black armour, jerkin and a crimson shirt. His thick, leather gloves trail over Merlin's nipples, feeling every inch of skin Arthur can see.

His trousers _are_ filthy, with brown, soft earth and with dried blood. Merlin unlaces them, letting Arthur tug them and his small-clothes off his legs.

Merlin's heart clenches _hot_ when Arthur pleads to have him, whispering against his ear, stroking Merlin's thigh absently.

"Yes, gods," he whispers back, summoning the vial from the mess of their belongings on the floor. Feeling _empty_ without Arthur. "Do it, Arthur… "

"I'm here, love. Hush now," Arthur says, petting Merlin's cheek with the backs of his fingers. The dark stubble rasping softly to his glove.

Merlin watches him, confused, but then with his naked cock stiffening in interest. Arthur dribbles the oil over leather, rubbing slick fingers together. He arranges Merlin on his back, crooking his legs apart. Merlin nibbles at Arthur's bottom lip, hands deep in Arthur's hair.

He presses his mouth and pressing hungry, breathy kisses to his companion's jaw, distracted as Arthur fingers his hole, opening him.

It's glorious how Merlin's rim pinkens, sloppy with oil, when Arthur works inside as careful as he can, thrusting short jabs. Arthur's own cock twitches in longing at the sight of leathered, dark fingers widening the pucker, stretching Merlin to seemingly impossible lengths.

Merlin's hips lift a moment, grinding into Arthur's hand. His eyes bleed away to a golden yellow, crawling to ecstasy.

"Fuck me, you arse," he demands, spearing in Arthur's third finger when Merlin rocks, moaning.

"I believe I _am_ fucking you," Arthur says, baiting him, his lips tilting up sly. He wants very much to press inside Merlin's heat, to savor the bare drag against his cock. To feel each tremor of muscle. Reduce the man in front of him to shivers and babbles.

And in a way, he still can do that, uncurling his gloved fingers and fitting in the littlest one. With enough oil, with enough heart-pounding pace, Merlin's body accepts Arthur's hand to the row of knuckles, but stops, fluttering.

"Keep breathing, Merlin; you can do this," Arthur encourages gently, touching over Merlin's chest sharply rising in. He's so pitifully thin. "I know you can. Just a little more now."

"_Hurts_," Merlin whines out, face scrunching.

Arthur's nerve wavers at the sound.

"Merlin?" he asks. "Tell me if it's too much."

After a pause, Merlin decides to thin his lips together, shaking his head. Arthur stares into watery, gold eyes, easing up to kiss his eyelids. Stupid, _beautiful_ idiot of a warlock. Merlin chuckles against Arthur's mouth, appearing more relaxed. "Keep going," he murmurs.

"You're insufferable," Arthur says, expression fond. He waits for Merlin grasping his arm, urging him. "Can't imagine why I bother with you."

"No one else is willing to let you fist their bum, are they?"

To Arthur's mortification, he blushes. To retaliate, Arthur bites down at the left dip of Merlin's side, right where his hip joined, and it _loosens_ Merlin.

Merlin's body takes him up to the wrist, muscles undulating, letting Arthur sink in deeper than his cock has ever gone. The _heat_ is incredible. Arthur swears he feels it right through the leather. He pulls at Merlin's cock, slowly tugging it back to firmness. The length of Arthur's hand nudges, brushing repeatedly to his prostate.

A noiseless cry jolts out of Merlin, his mouth opening, face blazing with a red colour.

"You're amazing, christ," Arthur says, edging on prattling, his trapped cock angry for release. But he can't, _can't_ focus on that, not while getting Merlin so full, not drowning in this inferno—in Merlin's body.

When Arthur's fingers shift, making to ball up a fist, Merlin comes hard on his back, arching and nearly screaming from the push-pain of raw sensation. His magic lashes out, crushing the thrown jug on the floorboards like it had been a sheet of parchment, and rattling the cot beneath them.

Merlin's seed pumps onto his belly, glossing it in white streaks. He goes limp, trembling periodically through the waves of his orgasm, enough where Arthur finds he can slip his hand free. If done carefully. He doesn't want to chance hurting him.

Arthur strips off that leather glove, fumbling with both hands for his belt.

He surges forward, grabbing onto Merlin's hips to steady him, smearing the glans to Merlin's hole. Arthur ruts against it, tempted to push in a bit—just to feel the wonderful snag of the tight ring of muscle. He thinks better of it, for Merlin's sake, gasping when Arthur spends himself between his pale thighs.

There's barely time to recover when Merlin's arm wrap around him, pressing their bodies down, legs entwining.

The warlock's head nestling to the curve of Arthur's throat smelling of their shared heat and of sex. As if Merlin were in danger of losing him the moment they were apart.

It hits a little close to home—Arthur's bare hand raking to grip on.

**.**

**.**

Merlin awoke to light pinching and caressing on one of his buttocks. He slapped the hand away, cranky. "M'fucking sore, you arse."

"_Love you too_," Arthur sighs resigned, embracing Merlin's skinny back.

**.**

**.**

Despite the unconfirmed navigation of the numerous, ancient maps, they discover the lair far, far beneath everything in dank caverns.

As well as five grown men and six woman, lost, starving and _alive_.

Merlin grants Arthur have the honour of wrenching Excalibur deep in the Questing Beast's breast.

He kills the magical creature as it was fast asleep in its nest of rotted human remains and yellowed, splintered bones. The town of Balor showers them with coppers and hot meals and unending gratitude when Merlin and Arthur return from the menacing forest, with over two quarters of the missing family members in tow.

"I'm sorry, we need to be moving on," Arthur says, shaking the mayor's quivering hand. "Your offer to keep us is most appreciated, but…"

Merlin's eyes flicker yellow, as he raises a hand high, lighting the celebratory bonfires in the square, enjoying the sudden, astonished jaw drops.

Arthur snorts.

"I'm afraid you would tire of us quickly."

**.**


	8. GoodFeelTouch

_Title: GoodFeelTouch dot AVI  
_

_Content/Warnings: Cybersex, Modern AU, Established Relationship, Anal Plug, Fantasizing  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #8 "Skype sex"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

"What the hell is _bi-directional control_?"

Merlin unfolds his instruction manual, rustling it and pushing his hands down to flatten it to the side table. "Dunno," he says absently, and swears under his breath when a large rip happens through one section. He didn't mean to press down so hard. Merlin smooths it together.

Thank goodness it was the Spanish/French translation. Didn't need that.

Arthur doesn't appear to be paying attention anymore, even though he asked the earlier question.

Merlin glances up to check, viewing the top of a burnished gold head in his mobile-screen. The way Arthur's bucking up and down, back and forth with meticulous intent—what Merlin can actually _see_ of him in any case—and the groans echoing from Merlin's phone speakers implies a great deal of _effort_, not irritation.

Lord help him if that's Arthur shoving the plug Merlin bought up his arse right now…

He readjusts himself in his underwear.

Aw, to hell with it. It's nearly midnight. He's by himself presently, done with the scheduled outings and interviews and his agent Gwen shooing him from the local restaurants.

It's his damn expensive hotel room, and it's _his_ damn book tour in Paris. If Merlin wanted to hang out with his dick in his hand, getting off with his longtime boyfriend with cybersex via Skype, then no one was going to stop him.

Merlin pushes off his underwear. The skin on his arse making low sucking noises to the material of the side table's nesting chair.

He found Lysol disinfectant spray in the loo. No worries for the hotel's staff.

"Did you just… ?"

"It's _in_, Merlin. That's what we planned." Arthur's face returns to the screen, his bangs untidy, skin hot and rosy and sun-browned. He maneuvers back onto their bed, kneeling up, completely naked from the waist-down.

"Nothing, um… " Merlin clears his throat, beginning to smile. "That was very…"

"You _have_ been away for a while," Arthur informs him, staring meaningfully at the laptop camera. Guilt crawls in the pit of Merlin's gut.

He never liked traveling this long, not while living in the London flat with Arthur. Now traveling felt like leaving. And leaving felt like _abandoning_.

But if he admitted to that, Arthur would probably dispose off the vibrator plug and unleash such a horrendous, livid tongue wagging…

"The sooner we start, the better it'll feel later." Arthur reaches down to his thickening cock. His fingers slipping back the foreskin, displaying a visible bead of semen.

As he teases himself, Merlin's eyes center on that bead, pupils starting to dilate, licking his lips. If he could, he would sip the fluid off the tip of Arthur's cock, tasting its bitterness and the silky, rigid texture of him.

Merlin didn't know _what_ heroic act he did in a past life to land himself not only a professional footballer with slopes of chiseled, gorgeous muscles, but also willing to put up with Merlin's long absences and bizarre writing quirks—only able to proofread at 4am, with his lucky fake-quill behind his ear; snacking on pickles and honey after a first draft, or a third, and then forgetting to brush his teeth and leaving Arthur to gag after a short kiss.

(Arthur clearly had troubling issues. How did you not like pickles? It was a good thing Merlin was stupidly lovestruck as he was.)

Merlin's next exhale through his lips quivers.

"Turn around, I want to see it," he says, voice rasping.

Arthur slows.

"You're kidding."

When Merlin's face can't be mistaken for anything else but sincerity, and the combination of addled fervor, he raises an eyebrow. "Randy prick," Arthur grumbles loudly to the camera, and by association to Merlin an entire country away, but grinning like this couldn't get any better.

But Merlin was _counting_ on it, readying his smart-phone in his left hand and tapping for the interactive menu. Still able to watch Arthur's back uncoil. Merlin's boyfriend with his face burying in the mattress, and his plump, round arse exposed and thrust out in the air. The magenta anal-plug shyly peeking between Arthur's flexing ass-cheeks.

Thank _god_ for Android phones and wireless internet.

Merlin scrambles for his own lubricated sex toy, panting, fitting his now throbbing cock into the cushioned, semi-tight container.

"I hope you had your fill of—"

Arthur cuts himself off with a obscene but shocked noise, as Merlin switches on the manual vibration. "_Fuck_!" he cries out. Oh, it's _delicious_ to see how Arthur's leg muscles strain to keep himself up, knees spreading apart to distribute his weight when the plug whirrs on.

"You, fuck, _ughh_," Arthur gives a whimper, hardly pained. His arse clenches and clenches before Merlin's eyes, but holds the toy in deep.

Merlin snickers, dropping his chin.

"Sorry, sorry I was curious," he says, tapping for another option on the smart-phone menu. "Arthur, I think I found the bi-directional control… "

"A _warning_ could have been mentioned!"

"Warning," Merlin says knowingly, thrusting his cock past the opening of his sex toy, feeling the medical-grade silicon envelope him.

But it's not half as amazing as glimpsing his own actions effect Arthur, miles from Paris and this hotel room, the vibrations buzzing over the connection. Arthur's hips gyrate forward. The repeated motions of Merlin's hand aid him, plunging inside, almost falling in rhythm.

It's not close to fucking Arthur, touching him. How Merlin's palms skin over Arthur's torso and his pecs, having Arthur bouncing sweaty and heavy in his lap, their breathes mingling.

But this is as close as they're getting.

The way Arthur keens out nonsense syllables, head tossing back, his pelvis almost flat to their mattress while he grinds his cock to the quilt.

Merlin fucks the toy harder in his right hand before realizing he's about to come, pulling off and fumbling one-handed to manual vibration. Cranking it to the highest rotation and volume. Arthur comes moments before Merlin strokes himself off, listening to Arthur howl out what Merlin thought was his name. Or just more nonsense.

If Merlin could somehow magically and physically emerge through his mobile-screen, he would yank out that now silent plug, and bury his face into Arthur's arse. Nuzzle it, worship Arthur in kisses and slow licks.

Once he's caught his breathing, Arthur murmurs over his shoulder, rolling onto his side. His wet cock on his inner thigh. "Need to come home."

"Soon," Merlin promises, whispering, thumbing over Arthur's face. He looks adorable well-fucked and sleepy, his eyelids half-mast.

"Okay," returns a whisper.

A surge of undeniable tenderness is to blame when Merlin touches his mouth softly over his Android's mobile-screen.

Fortunately, there's one ridiculously priced seat left in the first-class cabin tomorrow. Gwen sends him nine texts, leaves several exasperated phone messages, as Merlin nods off somewhere over the English Channel.

**.**


	9. What Is This Feeling?

_Title: What Is This Feeling?  
_

_Content/Warnings: Resolved Sexual Tension, ____Canon Era, Handjobs_, Fights  


_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #9 "against the wall"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

It was not even been fortnight since he arrived in Camelot and Merlin _loathed_ Arthur.

Everything about him. No, he meant it.

Gaius wouldn't approve, but Gaius wasn't his _father_ and so he couldn't tell him what to think or feel, Merlin reasoned stubbornly.

The way he swaggered himself down the roads of the lower town, flanked by King Uther's guards and every person automatically giving him an extra wide berth—as if they were scared of being in his path. The way Arthur _treated_ his servants, like the poor, harassed boy with the rolling shield.

He refused to acknowledge how horrid his personality was. Spoiled, rude, arrogant, supercilious, and _mean_. So mean-spirited.

In short, Arthur's very existence. And the gods-awful talk of _destiny_.

Merlin wouldn't take back his decision of slowing down the enchantress's blade and yanking Arthur away from his chair, because he wasn't some cold-hearted _scoundrel_. A life was a life. He couldn't stand idly by. Then again, Merlin wasn't so sure he could muster the will to perform the kindness a second time—_when Arthur acted like he was dung_.

"_Mer_lin, you idiot!"

Arthur's iron-ringed fingers snapped in front of Merlin's face. Right. Merlin as on his way back to the soon-to-be-crowned prince's chambers, having dried out some of the laundry, when the blond man had yelled at him from across the empty corridor.

"I am _talking_ to you!"

"Yah, I can see that," he muttered, folding the tunics over his arm.

Arthur snarled, decreasing Merlin's personal space. Magic hummed under the surface of Merlin's skin, a caution signal. _Attack, flee, attack_.

"You will address me as '_sire_' or do you need a reminder of the cells?"

_Flee, attack_.

Expressionlessly, Merlin walked around him, eyes lowering.

Arthur's voice called to him, seething with anger, "And just where the hell do you think you're going? I haven't dismissed you!"

"Do you _ever_ get tired of hearing yourself talk?" Merlin called back, daringly. But stars and heavens above them all, he could feel a nasty headache pressing his temple. "I swear, it's like an insect buzzing around in my head."

He chanced a fleeting glance at Arthur who looked positively gobsmacked, as if he hadn't expected _anyone_ ever speaking ill to him like that. Merlin cheered his success privately.

The shock wore off, quickly replaced by an ominously frigid tone.

"Did you… just address me as a _pest_?"

Merlin said thoughtfully, shrugging, "Well, now that you mention it—"

He choked, his gem-blue scarf obstructing the air from his lungs when Arthur roughly seized onto it and pitched him off his feet. The back of Merlin's head slammed against a marble stone wall, blackening shadows to the corners of his vision. Arthur's hands remained clutching his scarf.

Blinking out the shadows and the dizzy, Merlin stared centimeters from Arthur's twisted face. The other man whispered, hot puffs of breath grazing Merlin's lips, "I could have you _strung up_ for this treason."

He fought for mental clarity, for that connection from brain to mouth.

"So it's treason for t-telling someone they should be a kinder person?"

Arthur barked out a laugh, his mouth quirking cruelly. The sarcasm rolling off him anything but misled from the truth. "_Is that_ what you were doing, Merlin? Oh, allow to make it up to you—perhaps they should build a statue of your likeness in the citadel's square for your _generosity_."

"What, next to yours?" Merlin retorted. His blood starting to boil hot in his veins and a magic far older than Merlin's ancestors screaming inside him _attack fleeattack_.

"Since you're such a _noble_ wanker—"

Arthur's large fingers pinched harshly at the sides of Merlin's jaw, attempting to restrain him.

Out of instinct, Merlin wretched from the compromising position, snapping his teeth warningly at Arthur's fingers.

_Shite_.

A long period of silence hovered between them.

He could do it. He could. Merlin could push the other man off him, risk using his sorcery. Arthur was probably going to lock him for good in the dungeons anyway. Uther might try to execute Merlin for trying to _bite_ his son's hand.

But… Arthur did nothing, said nothing. One hand still curled in Merlin's ratty scarf.

Merlin avoided direct eye-contact with him, avoided breathing on him, those long, dark eyelashes of his falling together. It wasn't until Merlin felt the insisting push of Arthur's tongue, widening Merlin's lips and urging them to separate, slimy and soft and warm—okay, this definitely wasn't a punishment.

(Was it? No, no why would it be…)

Merlin _liked_ kissing.

He did. He liked kissing blushing maids and blushing stable-boys and even the blushing, giddy whores. Ealdor never had whores, or an establishment for the services of whores, but Merlin often wandered from his village through the thick of the woods or the caverns, searching out new opportunities and people who weren't so _close-minded_.

Arthur's contact-swollen lips pulled away, but not enough to forget the heat.

Merlin groaned, disappointed and _needing_ to feel that obvious stirring in Arthur's trousers when the prince had jerked up into him.

"I've never met any person like you, Merlin."

He wasn't sure if the note detected in Arthur's voice was admiration or terror, but Merlin was sporting an impressive, painful erection and needed_needed_ this clotpole to think a little less right now. Merlin unlodged Arthur's fingers from his blue scarf, skating them over Merlin's leg as he hitched it up to Arthur's hip.

"Unless you want to be caught, I'd get on with it," Merlin said, mouthing the bob of Arthur's neck.

The laugh escaping Arthur trembled to Merlin's lips.

"Wouldn't that liven up the palace gossip," he murmured, grinning. Merlin grinned back, treasuring its rare, sunny appearance. _Finally_.

This is the Arthur he wanted to save from the dagger.

He kissed Arthur messily, grabbing his ass with one hand, but otherwise letting Arthur take the lead. He didn't mind being crowded against the marble wall, covered by Arthur's front. Never had been claustrophobic.

The torches were already aglow with flame, providing ample lighting. Nighttime seeping in though open-air corridors, unable to chase out the fires. No oncoming footsteps from the hidden stairwells. At least not yet.

For once, Merlin practiced control on his vocal chords, keeping his lips sealed and his moans guttural. But he did land a cracking slap on Arthur's fully clothed ass when he jerked Merlin's cock in his breeches. It was a bit too painful to suit Merlin's lovemaking preferences, especially doing this dry-handed—lucky for him, it was met with a pleased whine.

With a couple more hard jerks, and tiny sounds like gasps flying out of Arthur's mouth as Merlin dragged their hips back, Merlin's fingers clawing bone-white into the meat of Arthur's buttock—he was spurting inside his clothes, and over Arthur's royal hand.

Aw, _shite_.

Merlin's own hand grew sticky and hot with fluid, and he released Arthur, wiping his hand on… one of Arthur's tunics he just got done cleaning.

Double _shite_.

Nothing was going right, aaand…

And, Merlin's brain short-circuited as Arthur raised his hand to his face and dragged his tongue lazily up his own palm, scraping the come off.

"Clean yourself off before finishing the laundry, you stink of it," Arthur said tonelessly, popping each of his dirtied fingers past his lips. He sucked them loudly with that _spectacular_ mouth, but smirking at Merlin's eyes bulging.

Gods above, he loathed this man.

**.**


	10. Realism

_Title: Realism  
_

_Content/Warnings: Romance, Modern AU, Friends to Lovers, Past Abuse, Mpreg__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #10 "doggy style"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

The first time he saw Merlin was just a second out the windows—no more than a blink in time. A dark speck amongst the echoing white sunlight.

And then, the school doors burst open, several of the pre-grade children looking up eagerly for their parents. Arthur's mouth slipped open, very much without his permission, eyes pinning on a tall, lovely man walking in.

_Walking_ had, in fact, been a politer term for the unsteady steps Merlin took. But Arthur could only imagine so with the large, pregnant belly hanging off his thin frame. My god, how did those _cheekbones_ exist… ?

Before it registered completely, Arthur was approaching him, having abandoned his unzipped sports bag on the floor, hand extended.

"My name is Arthur," he said, hoping in the back of his mind Arthur didn't sound half as nervous as he was feeling presently.

Merlin took it unquestioningly, the skin brushing Arthur's hand swollen-warm by his higher temperature. But his _lovely_, blue eyes scanned Arthur up and down, mildly impressed.

"_You're_ the gymnastics instructor?"

Arthur's mouth went dry. His initial reaction was to toss back a scathing remark, except Merlin didn't appear to be insulting him.

"… Is there a problem?"

He opened his mouth, rounding out. (And Arthur was _not_ on about how luscious the color his lips were, or how they would be puffy from a good snog.)

"Oh, _no_. Not at all. Heh."

Merlin said, nose crinkling up adorably when he smiled brightly at Arthur. "You… don't look like someone who works with kids, is all. I mean, perhaps you _could_ have been one of those supermodel types who grew bored of the glamored fame. Or a son of a rich investor, that too."

Arthur didn't quite know what to say to that. But he did laugh, bringing a hand up to his neck and scratching at an itch.

"Well, now that we've gotten, uh, hilariously specific assumptions out of the way," Arthur said, avoiding staring at Merlin's mouth. "You might be?"

"Daddiee!"

One of the smaller boys, with coppery brown hair and too-dark eyes to be Merlin's luminous blue, hugged around Merlin's leg. Merlin grinned down at him, touching his shoulder when the child nudged him.

"I'm Merlin. And, this is my son, Daegal," he told Arthur, and there was no mistaking the shameless pride. "Bug, this is Arthur."

Daegal shook his head to Merlin's pant-leg.

"I _know_ him already, Daddy!" he giggled.

"You do," Merlin amended, gently pushing the bangs off Daegal's face. "Go get your things, hmm? We don't want to make Percy wait."

Arthur watched Daegal nod and sprint for the cubbies, ignoring multiple cries in the room—fellow pre-grader and adult—of "_NO running_!" He caught Merlin staring after him absently, rubbing his overly pregnant stomach with both hands, circling slowly, like he wasn't even aware of it.

"Is, um… ?"

"Baby kicks a lot," Merlin said, aloud, looking over at Arthur with a pleasant expression. Pleasant was good. Really good. "It calms her down—_ow_," he complained, rubbing harder at the top of his belly, his other arm and hand resting beneath the huge curve. Merlin grimaced and then began to laugh, his face dimpling. "But not today, it seems."

For the circumstances, Merlin came off as a happy-go-lucky person. Not like most women or men Arthur found himself attracted to.

Then again, Arthur never felt attracted to any gigantic, red-blue plaid shirts, but he had the feeling even Merlin could win him over in a goddamn flour-sack.

"Would you like to, um," Arthur started. He glanced around, snatching up one of the metal folding chairs, creaking it open. "Sit? Please."

"Thank you but we're not staying. I run by the availability of the sitter's and it can be a tight arrangement." Merlin then added, jokingly, "Besides, once I do sit down, you won't be able to get me back up. I've seen it."

With a feigned look of seriousness, Arthur replied, "M'sure we'd find a way."

It was worth the reappearance of the bright, toothy smile.

"It's only two months, and it'll be dirty nappies and late night feedings. I swear, all that milk never stays down—" Merlin stopped mid-babble, lips pressing together. "Not that you particularly care," he said, embarrassed.

And to Arthur's own surprise, _curiosity_ and how amiably deep Merlin's voice was overrode any revolved opinions about infantile vomiting.

"Well, it wouldn't say th—"

To his credit, Arthur was spared a tricky subject as Daegal returned. The little boy dropped his backpack and leaned his body towards the gymnasium mats. With concentrated movement, Daegal put his weight on his hands and did a quick cartwheel on the mat.

"I can do it, Daddy! _Look_!"

Merlin beamed, clapping his hands as Arthur did the same.

"Good lad!" he shouted, then waddling over to clasp Daegal's hand. "They'll be teaching you front aerials next, I expect." He side-eyed Arthur, gone smug by his likely correct reference. Arthur snorted in his direction.

"I would ask you to join as a parenting volunteer, but… " he trailed off, gesturing to Merlin, amused. An offended noise left the pregnant man.

"Oi, I can do cartwheels, too!"

Merlin then examined Arthur's critical stare. He insisted, a dash of pink on his face. "I _could_ before the pregnancy, I'll have you know." Merlin fingers settled to hooking under the swell of his belly. "Believe it or not, I used to do parkour for theatre performances. Shakespearean once or twice."

Arthur fought down a smirk. "That's very impressive, Merlin."

"_You_ are a… " Merlin said, rudely smacking Arthur's bicep as the other man chuckled, taking it. "A _word_ not to be spoken in front of my son." Daegal's head craned up, staring at his father innocently, and Merlin squeezed the three-year-old's hand.

"Let's go Dae-bug. Arthur needs to head home too before I bruise up his other arm."

"You _hardly_ bruised it."

Merlin's grin turned positively _devilish_ on him. "Better not give me the opportunity to try again," he remarked, guiding his son ahead of him.

Arthur sucked in a breath for courage, steeling himself. This was slightly mad. But—

—Pendragon men also never backed down if the risk was worth it.

"What if I do?" he asked, heart pounding against his ribcage when Merlin glanced over his shoulder, confused. Arthur straightened himself, marching forward, shoulders aligned. "I'd… like to see you again, if I can," he said, a bit more softly. "If that's what you want, Merlin."

"As friends?" Merlin asked, cautiously. For all Arthur knew, Merlin was a committed man, despite the lack of a wedding ring.

"Yes," he lied, or partly lied… oh hell with it. Arthur didn't know anymore.

But he ended up with Merlin smudging his mobile number with a blue raspberry-scented marker on the back of Arthur's hand and questioned if he liked Scandinavian.

**.**

**.**

They did remain friends.

But after a while, Arthur still couldn't get Merlin out of his head. His goofy smiles. The witty, unabashed banter. His pale cheekbones and cheerfulness and those two, long front teeth of Merlin's that were almost rabbity.

This was absolutely mad, and he needed to _think_ straight.

As straight as a lonely, gay bachelor who now wanked off in the shower, imagining Merlin seated on his cock—yeah, not very much.

Arthur prayed this wasn't turning into a pregnancy kink for him, but it was feeling more and more like a _Merlin_ kink. Undoubtedly, Merlin being pregnant suited him—his healthy complexion, his energy, his attitude.

His stepsister prattled on about "finding the person of your dreams"—but it seemed that Arthur was content with only dirty, rough imaginings.

He couldn't be falling for this bloke. He _couldn't_. It had only been a couple weeks, and his usually reserved flatmate Pellinore got along with Merlin too well, chatting up about museums and architecture, and Merlin was _indefinitely_ single and Arthur secretly adored listening to him talk…

Merlin frequented a cafe that served brilliant toasted sourdough and potatoes in a dill vinaigrette and smoked salmon and eff roll that Arthur knew immediately after the first bite he would be addicted to them for life.

"I'm filing the divorce with my ex-husband," Merlin informed him out of the blue, one afternoon, nibbling on an end of his sandwich.

Arthur paused sipping on his water. Oh.

"It's done, but needs to go through completely… " Merlin adjusted himself in his chair, pressing for a moment on his lower back. The weather had been fair enough to enjoy sitting outdoors, but the cafe benches—as Merlin groaned about—tended to uncomfortably dig in.

He sighed. "I'm glad I admitted that. To someone. It's been difficult… "

Arthur leaned forward, elbows scraping the table, nodding to him.

"Daegal's father and… ?"

Merlin frowned, picking at the browned edges of lettuce. "The baby isn't his," he muttered. Merlin didn't sound disappointed, just… tired. Fatigued by his knowledge and if he could help it, Arthur wanted to lessen that burden.

The more Merlin explained the kind of man Julius Borden was, the more Arthur found himself knuckling his glass, outrage building, teeth gritting.

Julius had been arrested early on for thieving, but when released he had charmed a younger, less disillusioned Merlin at a local pub with his ambitions and reckless streak. Merlin had believed he could change him, tame him, mature him eventually, have a family with Julius.

But nothing could have changed his vile nature—how he lied to Merlin, got arrested for loitering and drug-dealing, and the prostitutes. "He couldn't stand the idea of not having _options_," Merlin said, sourly.

"The baby isn't his because I wouldn't let Julius touch me after he admitted forcing Daegal's pregnancy on me, _taking care_ of the prescriptions we got and switching them out for fertility enhancing drugs. Y'know, I thought once he was trying to… give a _damn_ about us… "

Merlin let out a bitter laugh, rubbing his eyelid. "I cocked it up," he said, motioning with the same hand. "I had another bloke for _one_ night while I was on the piss and let him bugger me, and I thought it was alright. Thought the chances were slim to none."

Arthur observed the other man tilt his head back, staring blankly at the cafe umbrella.

"Turns out I'm very fertile, whether or not I wanted it," Merlin whispered, combing his fingers through his hair.

Thick and dark curls. It looked thick. Arthur reined in the urge to reach across their table, to solidify the notion, to hold the side of Merlin's face.

Merlin had this way of speaking his mind, of not caring what others thought of him and deliberately being blunt. It was refreshing, new. Everyone else around Arthur faked their smiles and their enthusiasm. Faked their smiles while grieving or livid. Not Merlin.

"He didn't approve, I expect… "

"Honestly who would?"

Merlin lifted his head upright, blinking out the sensation of the world rotating. The online article Arthur discovered yesterday on his laptop mentioned lightheartedness and dizziness, all across the duration of the third trimester, as well as shortness of breath.

"It didn't matter. I had moved out with my son by then, getting a lawyer and drawing up the papers. They said it could take up to a year or more in court. I was at six weeks with this little one." Merlin gazed fondly down at his bump, smiling close-mouthed. "There's a restraining order on Julius, but he's left the country by now. Bollocks on him."

Arthur smiled at him, wordless, but overcome by the entire truth. No wonder Merlin hardly trusted anyone else, let alone Arthur.

Merlin's bare hand cupped over his navel protruding against the wove material of his turtleneck, holding himself possessively.

"I _want_ this baby, Arthur," he said, nearly pleading. "She's mine. Same as Daegal. I never regretted having him, and I won't regret her."

"I know," Arthur breathed out, imagining taking Merlin's hand into his.

If he figured out one thing about the mystery and enigma that was Merlin—he was a _fantastic_ parent. Devoted to his children. It swelled Arthur's heart.

Merlin's half-bitten sandwich dropped back on his plate. He cradled the sides of his large stomach with a stifled, low noise, taking deepened breathes. The point of Merlin's chin almost lowering to his sternum.

"Merlin?" Arthur's body tensed.

"_Merlin_, what is it? What's happening?"

"S'alright," Merlin said, throaty, licking his upper lip. "Just a contraction."

"A—_what_?" Panic flared through Arthur's veins.

He got up from the cafe table quickly, running to Merlin's bench and taking his shoulders. Not understanding in the haze of adrenaline why Merlin was _laughing_ at him. Maybe he was delirious. Did contractions make you a nutter?

"Merlin, what is so funny—we need to get you to an emergency room."

"Please, just stop," Merlin spoke up, hands off himself and grabbing at Arthur's wrists. His _daft_ expression still crinkled from the laughing fit, even as it faded and Merlin began looking annoyed. "Stop, it's a fake one. My body is preparing for labor."

At the further horror on Arthur's face, he rolled his eyes.

"For the labor not happening now!" Merlin hissed. "For christ's sake, sit _down_. They're all staring at us." Little was Arthur aware that two employees and the owner of the establishment were peeking through the windows, and a couple in sunglasses a table away craned their necks.

Arthur slumped back down on his bench, sending the window a glare. "You've lost me, Merlin," he mumbled.

"Everything here—" Merlin's palm mapped over the front of his entire belly. "—everything clenches up on occasion, like there's a fist inside, but it passes. If I was about to give birth, it would be different, Arthur. There would be a lot more pain."

Merlin grinned, picking up his sandwich.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he apologised, taking a chunk from the sweet bread.

"Don't _ever_ do that again," Arthur said, giving him a wounded look.

He thudded his head into his folded arms on the cafe table, groaning pitifully. Merlin continued to serenely chew, taking a drink from Arthur's glass of water.

"Are you often told you have highly theatrical behavior? You should consider auditioning with me next summer."

At the mischievous tone, Arthur raised not his head, but a two-finger salute.

**.**

**.**

At the outdoor bust station, just missing rush hour, they waited.

"… So, what do you mean 'finding the one of your dreams'?"

When Arthur sneered faintly at the ridiculous notion, the other man snickered, keeping one hand on a steel pole for balance.

"That's not a very nice face, is it?" Merlin asked, good-naturedly, "Mind explaining?"

"Morgana—"

"Your stepsister," Merlin interrupted, knowingly. "I remember you telling me."

"_Morgana_ believes in rubbish. I've told her there's no such thing."

"That's like saying the idea of romance doesn't exist." Arthur turned to him. Merlin then said, distrustfully, his opened, button-suede jacket flapping about him to a passing vehicle. "How would you know it doesn't exist until you've tried to understand it?"

"I don't think you're an expert, Merlin."

If the comment stung Merlin , it didn't show. But Arthur's gut took a flying leap to the bottoms of his trainers. "I _didn't_ mean—"

"No, Arthur. Don't even _think_ of feeling sorry for the single, pregnant dad," Merlin said, fiercely. Luminous blue eyes narrowed, but to Arthur's rueful observation, they also gleamed suspiciously. "I've accepted my mistakes. I don't want Daegal to grow up thinking I'm ashamed of him."

He reached over, clasping at Merlin. "He won't," Arthur reassured.

But Arthur's hands went for Merlin's belly, touching its round firmness. He jolted in realization, pulling his hands away. But Merlin pulled them back, flattening Arthur's warm palms over him. At the amazed, uncertain look, Merlin agreed, lips quirking, "He won't."

Thank goodness the height difference between them was virtually nonexistent.

Arthur opened his mouth, thoughts whirling, but Merlin beat him to it.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, quietly.

With sincerity, Arthur replied, spanning his hands over Merlin's shirt. "You can do… whatever you like."

"Oh no, you shouldn't say that," Merlin warned softly, burrowing his fingers to Arthur's flaxen hair. "I'll get all sorts of bad ideas." Arthur's hands slide across his waist, tugging Merlin close as the first kiss nudged their lips to part slowly, exploring, cherishing the additional heat.

With delight, Arthur felt the baby inside Merlin flutter against Arthur.

Just as he was about to move past Merlin's lips, claim and worship that dreadfully empty mouth, Merlin bent his head away.

"You don't have to… 'cause I'm like this," he gasped, shaking his head. Merlin's cheeks reddening. "I wouldn't even when I'm like this."

Arthur tickled his fingertips over the curve of Merlin's ear, tracing its shape. He swiped his thumb over Merlin's cheek gently. "Merlin, I know that you are so completely hardheaded that even _I'm_ puzzled by how your mind works… " he drawled. "But what on earth are you going on about?"

Merlin's fingers left his hair.

"I'm not attractive. I'm… " One of Merlin's lips tremored. "You don't have to do this because you're obligated."

This time, it was Arthur who shook his head. How could Merlin think that?

"I have never felt _obligated_ to any of this." He said, firmly "I want to kiss you breathless, Merlin. Right here. I _want_ you. Pregnant or not pregnant. The baby bump is very sexy, I'll have you know." He imagined Merlin cracking up, leaning back into his hand and pressing a kiss to his thumb, and was pleasantly surprised to feel the soft, damp satin of Merlin's puffy lips touching Arthur's skin.

**.**

**.**

Elyan gladly took Daegal overnight, promising him to watch _The Neverending Story _from start to finish, just like Percy did.

**.**

**.**

Arthur couldn't imagine there was a better sight in the morning than Merlin writhing and moaning deliriously underneath him.

He pressed with the side of his face to his own bed, arching his lower half into Arthur's hands steadying him on his knees, huge belly distended.

He rocked back with small, uncoordinated thrusts, hardly getting the maneuvering desired, cursing as Arthur's slippery, lubricated prick fell out and Merlin's inner muscles clenched desperately at nothing. Merlin had been previously loose for him, from the multiple, vigorous rounds the evening before, and one very early morning.

Arthur's thumbs worked over the pucker, stretching.

"I've got you, love," he murmured, positioning and dimpling back inside Merlin's arse, grinding into the hilt within moments. The cry of _relief_ from Merlin was bordered a high pitch. His need to be full, his need to be full of Arthur and his cock, warning his sore little bottom…

Arthur loved this. He did. Merlin's pert, little arse, feeding his prick in, watching Merlin's cleft swallow it up without resistance. Feeling through the condom as Merlin's channel of perfect heat tightened round him, holding Arthur in deep, refusing to let go.

Even more, he loved how big Merlin's stomach felt in his hands, caressing the length and round density. He carried a _life_.

"You have it off on this, don't you?" came a husky murmur. Arthur gave a sharp, mean pinch to Merlin's thigh.

"_Shhh_."

He fucked in harder, rotating his hips, and slapping up against Merlin's flesh.

A glisten of sweat formed down Merlin's spine and Arthur's tongue laved it, tasting salt and powder and Merlin's hot skin. "Arthur, Arthur, _please_," he whined out, bucking helplessly, feeling Arthur hammering relentlessly against that gland inside him. "Need you—"

"Come for me, Merlin. I want to hear it."

Merlin did, shouting out Arthur's name like it was his litany and jerking himself against the bedsheets, staining them. Merlin's body spasmed around him, clenching harder and pushing Arthur to follow him. Divine and so _fucking_ full in a heavy weight cupped in Arthur's hands.

**.**

**.**

Pulling aside the kitchen curtain, Arthur peered out the sunlit window into the yard.

He placed down the soapy dishes, glimpsing a tall, lovely man cartwheeling on the grass. A squealing toddler on the family room blanket and five-year-old Daegal encouraging his little sister, taking her tiny hands into his and waving their arms.

Arthur's stepsister mouthed an '_I told you so_' from his left side, smugly drying off the plates.

**.**


	11. End Of All Things

_Title: End Of All Things  
_

_Content/Warnings: Violence/Gore, Alternate Universe-Canon, Mind Control, Non-con, Dark Merlin__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #11 "dom/sub"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

The fortress of Daobeth had once been a mighty symbol for its kingdom.

And now the vast holds and keeps, as well as the citadel were empty of dying, petrified screams. Crumbling mortars and ashy rocks used for building the very walls saturated in freshly dripping or old blood stains.

Within time, fearful rumors spread of _dragons_ bringing down Daobeth and its king to ruin—and nature took root in the destruction, took it all _back_.

Spiraling trees rose to the ceilings, growing thick in dark, lust canopy. Craggy hills surfacing from the broken floors, with freshwater streams trickling and running off into the soil. Grey-green moss covering every visible inch of stone around, sweeter-smelling than any blossomed flowers.

Daobeth may have appeared unmanned, but Daobeth needed no _men_.

The twin-doors creaked open, as if by their own will.

Cenred took a weary step into the primeval forest of a throne room, showing nothing in his expression. His personal-guard clad in boiled leather shuffling after him.

Long and fat wax candles stood tucked against the bark of the trees, melting into pale, hardened pools. The candle's wicks swayed and flickered but never harmed the surrounding greenery. Magic brimmed every end of the throne room, pure and wild, and dangerously prickled his hairs on Cenred's exposed nape.

But he kept his hands lowered to his sides, within easy sight. Away from his favorite double-bladed swords holstered at his back.

"My _lord_," he mocked-bowed, twirling his hands gaily.

A pair of eyes, blazing like fiery ember, materialized from the shadowy mass.

Atop the tree-twisted, mossy dais, the darkness released out a number of scaly, horned creatures, as they prowled down the jagged steps. The Last Dragonlord emerged from the remnants, smiling thinly as wyvern howled at each other, clawing the earth, prowling and shrieking.

He reclined back on the simple, black-weirwood throne, legs crossed, observing with ancient eyes as Cenred's men huffed nervously and recoiled as one big wyvern flapped its wings menacingly at them.

Merlin addressed the other king, his circlet flashing silver against his temples, "You must have news if you have taken the long journey here."

"I do." Cenred nodded to his men who threw down their prisoner—a muscular stranger gagged and bound, hand and foot. "I bring you the bastard boy of Uther Pendragon." The dented iron of his armour and purplish bruising to one side of the man's face suggested a lost quarrel.

Furious blue eyes met gold, staring back defiantly.

"His name?" Merlin inquired, already pleased.

As Cenred opened his mouth, he waved a hand and magic strangled off Cenred's voice. "I'll hear it from him," the warlock said, pointedly.

While Essetir's king grabbed at his own seizing throat, choking involuntarily and reeling back in shock, Merlin vanished from seating on his throne, corporealizing in front of the grimy, injured prisoner. Glowing eyes blinked and the rag disappeared from his mouth.

"Your name?" Merlin asked him, voice murmurous.

When the man said nothing to him, only kept staring bitterly up at him, Merlin grinned wolfishly. With his sorcery, he grappled around the man's tender, beating heart, without moving a finger, starting to crush.

"Your _name_."

The man grunted in agony, that precious heart stuttering. "_Arthur_."

"Your mother?"

"_The Lady Vivienne_."

"That wasn't so hard," Merlin said, gladdened, rolling a shoulder in preparation. He then relinquished that crippling hold on Arthur's heart, letting the man bend forward, wheezing, yellow hair shielding his eyes.

"All you have to do to stay alive … is that I ask, Arthur _Pendragon_."

"I'd sooner _die_," Arthur snarled, his upper lip crusted in blood.

One of the creatures sulking let out a nightmarish sound, right in Arthur's direction, and Merlin growled out a command to silence it. The little wyvern nudged its three, over-sized horns to Merlin's waiting hand, crooning as the Last Dragonlord stroked affectionately along its back ridges.

Cenred fell over loudly, still clutching his throat, gasping in but unable to breathe out. Turning an alarming shade of color, almost violet.

One of his men advanced on Merlin, yelling and drawing his sword. A wyvern looked up, scarlet-glow eyes alert, skidding over and biting onto the guard's wrist. Free-flowing lifeblood splattered onto the ground. More wyvern screeched, picking up the heavy scent of meat and fear.

They pounced on the rest of the men, rushing in, mangling whole chunks from their torsos and chest, feasting and slurping and crunching into bone.

"If it is what you wish," Merlin said, ignoring the stench of death. "But you are now my guest. Lady Vivienne was one of my apprentices, and it would dishonor her memory to kill you heedlessly."

Arthur held back a flinch as the other man materialized a dagger and cut his ropes. He massaged the numbness away, glancing distrustfully as Merlin aided him to his feet.

Cenred, the only one who got away, now able to breath, sat away from them. But still not foolish enough to draw his weapons.

"You will come to me of your own desire… " Merlin lowered his voice, eyes fading to human blue, as if offering a different man. "… or you won't."

"I won't," Arthur repeated in monotone.

He stared right into Merlin's thoughtful frown. Challenging. Immovable. Unafraid. Merlin found him to be the man who was Vivienne and Uther's son to be _exactly_ what he should be.

And who _should_ be at Merlin's side—a consort, his ally, his other half.

But not yet. Not just yet. He needed persuasion.

With the tiniest push of magic, Arthur's mind and his worries went blissfully vacant. Merlin clasped his face, examining him relaxing. "Maybe later," he considered, taking Arthur's hand into his. Merlin walked the daze-eyed man up the dais of his throne, as if guiding him.

"You a well, Cenred."

He seated back onto the black-weirwood throne, pulling Arthur between his opened legs and working apart his lacings. Arthur's prick remained flaccid, even to the lightest touches as Merlin's fingers swept over it, testing its reaction.

"Kneel for me, Arthur."

The warlock turned Arthur around as he went obediently to his knees. Merlin urged his hips back to him, pushing Arthur's trousers off the swell of his ass and exhibiting the tight, shy furl of his entrance. His thumbs rubbed gently into it, eliciting a soft groan. Merlin smiled contently to it, peeling Arthur's cheeks open and whispering the incantation.

Cenred, who had followed closely behind them on jagged steps, braced him as Merlin said, smile widening, "Take out your cock—now _don't_ be like that. I'm sure it is a fine cock."

The other king scowled on instinct, but didn't argue, going for his belt.

He opened like a woman, leaking copiously and a decent fit from the magic's tricky spell as Merlin plunged inside, riding Arthur's warmth. Arthur's hands slapped noisily to moss-stone ground, managing to support himself up. His lips smeared against the rosy, bulbous head of Cenred's prick.

"Have him if you desire it," Merlin said coolly, even as he jerked roughly to Arthur's naked buttocks, bare and dirtied nails scraping down them.

But the air buzzed around them, with lust, with scorching power and heat.

Cenred hesitated, jaw set, hearing Arthur's low, dazed moans.

"He doesn't know he's here," Merlin explained, slowing his pace. He grabbed the back of Arthur's yellow hair, displaying him. The steel-bright of Arthur's eyes made thin, blue rinds by his overblown pupils. Pink mouth slackened open and gaze unfocused. "Caught in his head and far, far away from here."

Merlin let Arthur's head drop limply. "And you still refuse?" he asked, skeptically.

"I wouldn't believe in _denying_ you the pleasure of your spoils," Cenred said hoarsely, lips tensing into a half-smile as he belted his trousers.

"Never thought I'd see the day, Cenred." Merlin chuckled darkly, eyes returning to glow-color. "Mm, I have seen _many_ of them… " He rested his hands to the outsides of Arthur's quaking thighs, petting him. Arthur cried out low, submissive as Merlin's next thrust into him knocked him forward, grinding Arthur's knees. Merlin undulated his hips, moaning in approval as those inner muscles squeezed around him.

"You mount woman like second nature. You believed them to be the weaker sex. You are _wrong_." He told Cenred, eyeing him. "My wyvern are all female, deeply territorial, strong. They have eaten your guard alive."

Merlin's breathing sucked in audibly, his climax sharp and dizzying. Forgetting everything else, he pulled Arthur's muscled, lax body to him, spurting hot and deep.

"Gods, he's beautiful," Merlin said, truly amazed, feeling his hands up Arthur's warm back, pushing under the fabric of his tunic. "Like a dream."

And all _his_.

"Leave now," he ordered, almost sighing.

Needing no more motivation other than his further safety, Cenred fled the Last Dragonlord's throne-room. He avoided the melted candles and snapping beast-jaws of wyvern hissing at him attempting to vanish past twin-doors.

No gods of Albion could help them get rid of this monster.

And certainly none could help the Pendragon bastard now.

**.**


	12. A Promise You Must Keep

_Title: A Promise You Must Keep  
_

_Content/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Canon Era, First Time, Aftermath of Torture, Romance__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #12 "fingering"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

There was something awful about the stench down in the lower portions of the dungeons (though, not as low as the Great Dragon, chained).

The ground beneath Merlin layered in soft, moldy hay. And beneath that, the chilly and solid quality of the dungeon stone-floor. As it was now pressed to Merlin's cheek where he laid, arms curled to himself.

A rumbling voice calling, calling his name, tuned out because how _could _Merlin hear anything besides the screams ripping out of his throat?

The last few hours of Aredian's "visits" seemed grey-out and etched in the pain that wracked every living fiber of him. Merlin wasn't sure where all the blood was coming from, but it dried around and in the corner of his left eye. A throb-sore of a cut on his bottom lip that stung and throbbed _worse _when the tip of Merlin's tongue swept over it.

His body ached steadily after he woke the first time, after blacking out. Merlin couldn't be sure where the worst damage done to him was.

Aredian seemed fond of his ___tools_.

It didn't matter what the Witch-Finder did to him. Not anything. Not a single lash of a whip, or steel chain, or impact of bare fist.

Merlin would never confess to sorcery, even if the horse in the smoke had been his doing. He would never potentially endanger Gaius or ruin his chances of remaining at Arthur's side. He was Merlin's destiny.

It wasn't that simple to throw away. If Merlin could be reassured of anything about himself, it would be that Merlin was annoyingly persistent.

One of the guards shuffled outside his cell, restlessly fumbling with the keys as Merlin opened his good eye, staring right at the boots and then the sly face of the Witch-Finder.

Aredian whistled cheerfully down at the broken boy, dangling a pair of manacles above him. He nudged a groaning Merlin from his side onto his back with a gleaming, shined boot-tip.

"Are you ready to confess, lad?"

Merlin arranged his bloody face from its show of agony, letting it fall neutral to the question. He slowly turned his face away.

A disarmingly appreciative laugh filled Merlin's ears.

"...I was hoping for that response."

**.**

**.**

More spinning haze gradually surrounded Merlin.

The brink of unconsciousness spurred on by continued pain muffling his eardrums and darkening his vision. He _did_ know in that moment that his arms were hoisted above him, slapped on by the manacles.

That Merlin's face felt incredibly warm. Whether by a new course of blood or from the growing fever, Merlin couldn't tell.

Aredian had been called away to Uther, he knew this much as well. The approaching footsteps and a gentle hand cupping under his chin… was bewildering. The Witch-Finder was, admittedly, anything but gentle in his methods…

His name echoed, slipping in and out of haze. Merlin cracked that one, blue eye open, blinking until the image of Arthur's face cleared.

"Merlin?… Merlin, can you hear me?"

Something like hope bubbled up in Merlin's chest and he opened his mouth, to echo Arthur's own name, but only produced a watery cough that shook him from head to foot. The tiny, metal spikes to his manacles pierced freshly into his Merlin's wrist, and he winced up.

"Don't, Merlin. Remain still. Let me get you down."

Fisted in one of Arthur's trembling hands, the iron key.

That should have been a clue in itself that something was wrong, but Merlin said very little on the way out of the dungeons or to Arthur's chambers. He had sat dutifully in one of the chairs by the dining table, head lowered, missing as servants carried in a hot bath.

He raised one of his arms to wipe at his face and silently grimaced.

Arthur prowled around him, rage evident. "Gaius is clearing your name as we speak," he said, seething. "This shouldn't have _happened_."

What was Arthur to blame for? He had not accused Merlin of sorcery, had not sentenced him to this degradation and inhuman brutality...

And yet, Arthur had the guile to look _sorry_.

He had _saved_ Merlin. Arthur Pendragon, crowned prince, going against the king's wishes. Would miracles never cease?

Merlin found himself kneeling besides the washing tub, left in his dirtied trousers, and soaking his injured wrists in the mildly warm water. It felt nice. Being out of the cold and dark.

He was aware of Arthur vanishing his line-of-vision, still angry, and probably still attempting to process the extremities of Merlin's wounds... he almost wanted to reach out and grab Arthur's tunic, yank him down and make _him_ sit because he was making Merlin feel nervous now.

Yes, he had no idea how much trouble they were in for leaving the dungeons, but Merlin was going to enjoy his freedom while he could.

"Will you stop that?" Merlin finally spoke up, still facing away, his voice reduced to a gravelly murmur.

Arthur uttered a complaining grunt. Surprisingly, he obeyed Merlin's suggestion, taking the chair nearby. But did not lessen his anxiety.

But having Arthur so close felt better. Felt safer.

"It'll be alright," came a low, probing observation.

It wasn't—there was no _alright_. The damage had been done already, but saying that to Arthur would have reassured neither him or Merlin.

"Yes, sire," he mumbled, lifting his wrists to examine them.

The pinprick wounds impressed to Merlin's skin were clean and no longer bleeding freely. They would indefinitely scar over. Unless Gaius had a herb remedy to smooth them over before healing.

He couldn't say much for the rest of the wounds on him, or the bruising.

"Gaius probably got held up. I can just—" Merlin started getting back on his feet, wavering when he had one foot up. His vision flashed in bright colors, whitening. Merlin fought for balance, swaying backwards.

Hands steadied him.

"You've really done it, haven't you," Arthur said, grunting.

Merlin let out a groan of halfhearted protest, but did not move, as his world went sideways. The prince of Camelot picked him up off his feet and dumped Merlin on the four-postered bed.

While it was inviting, he wondered how Arthur's attitude would be while experiencing a damp pillow later-where Merlin's still-wet, dark hair matted down on the plush, white material.

Merlin had always secretly imagined how comfortable lying on this bed would be…

It was even more so than he thought. No lumps, no thinness where he could feel the wooden bed-frame beneath him. Just the soft cushioning and the heavy, woolen sensations of blankets. He could feel the thinness in the cramped, tiny cot in Gaius's quarters.

Then again, any cot was a good cot. Merlin was used to sleeping on the hard, blanket-covered floors back home in Ealdor.

Merlin's hand absently rubbed at his left eye, seeing clearer now without the blood. "Dragging your feet around won't make them come any faster," he retorted, but without any real heat in it. When Arthur glanced at him, Merlin offered a thoughtful but pointed frown.

"Then I'll just have to get him myself," he muttered, storming out.

Merlin let out a soft, exasperated breath. Prince of _prats_, more like.

**.**

**.**

He didn't nod off during the wait, but heard Gaius and Arthur step in past the chamber's vigilant guards. "—you'll be able to treat it?"

"Of course, sire," came Gaius's patient answer.

Merlin shifted, letting Gaius check him over, as the physician took note of a larger, swollen wound on his shoulder, one along his temple and the colorful casting of bruises across the right side of Merlin's face.

He examined Merlin's pupils and asked about the level of pain he was in and where it concentrated. From Gaius's supplies he brought with him, Merlin's ribs and shoulder were wrapped with bandages, his temple dabbed with ointment along with the circumference of his wrists.

"The bruising will heal within a few days, but as for the head-wound and your fainting spells you've been encountering… it's best that you are monitored for the rest of the day, Merlin," Gaius said, aloud.

He turned to Arthur standing by him, rubbing at his jaw, eyebrows furrowed. "Would you like me to escort him back to his chambers?"

Merlin tilted his head on the pillow, also staring at Arthur for his decision. Honestly?… he doubted that he would make it far once he got up.

"No, he shouldn't move," he said. "Merlin will stay."

Gaius nodded his acknowledgement to Arthur, who nodded back and withdrew from the conversation. The physician gazed at Merlin, sharing a quiet, encouraging smile when Merlin's face looked up at him.

"Get some rest," Gaius said, sternly, making his way out.

"Promise," Merlin said, murmuring to his back, adjusting one of his arms under where he laid out on Arthur's bed.

As soon as Gaius left, as the doors shut, Merlin lifted himself upright—slowly as he could without sending himself in a dizzy fit-planting a hand to the mattress and gazing at Arthur through the fringe of his hair.

"I could move to the servant's quarters now… it's not a problem," Merlin said, with no more than the murmur he used earlier.

"_Mer_lin, will you stop," Arthur said, gruffly, pushing down on Merlin's uninjured shoulder. "I won't have you making a greater fool of yourself."

He didn't groan at the manhandling, but sent Arthur a frustrated eyeroll. This was getting slightly ridiculous—_him_ a fool?

Really, he should just be _grateful_ Arthur's doing this at all.

The reminder sobered him up. Merlin licked his lips, wincing when the cut over his bottom lip stung at the contact of damp saliva.

"Water," he said after a long moment, choosing to stare up at the ceiling. Merlin added, politely, lips quirking, "Please?"

Arthur's mouth jerked to a little half-smile.

"And when exactly did I become your servant, Merlin?" he drawled.

"I said _please_."

"You should try sitting up," Arthur told him solemnly, handing him a goblet. Water never tasted this _good_ before. Merlin greedily downed half of the amount, not minding dribbles leaking out the corner of his mouth.

If Arthur would have let him, Merlin would have downed the whole pitcher.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I tried, but you sort of shoved me down again." Merlin tried to sound more lighthearted than irritated. He handed the goblet to Arthur, planting his hand on the mattress again and straightening himself to a sit. It was good; he wasn't dizzy anymore.

Merlin's ribs and back ached like a slow, constant burn, but… he would live.

He wiped the wetness from his lips with the backs of his fingers, oddly content despite what had happened. And that went away, when Arthur then asked how he was feeling. A sort of chill passed over Merlin.

How was Merlin supposed to answer? If Arthur wanted the harsh truth: his body felt like it had been trampled by a wild horse, and that Merlin felt betrayed, scared, angry and mostly with himself.

But he couldn't say that. Not so candidly.

It would only have broken the lulling air, the illusion of comfort settling between the pair of them. And Merlin wanted to hang onto that…

"M'fine."

He flashed Arthur a sunny smile, that wasn't nearly as sunny in the effects with a split lip and bloodshot eye and loads of bruises.

"I should be thankful that I'm alive."

"This shouldn't have happened." There was a deep pain, complex emotion, not able to be cloaked in Arthur's voice. "My father should have trusted _me_. If he had, you wouldn't have been… falsely accused."

"I know you wouldn't have let this happen, Arthur." Merlin said, "The king did what he saw fit by trusting Aredian's word. Even if it was wrong, there isn't anything to be done about it now." Merlin's shoulders slumped, feeling suddenly his energy draining. But very much awake.

"I don't want to live my life in hate," he admitted, eyes gazing away. "There's nothing to be won or honoured with in that decision."

Arthur's tightened expression softened. He nodded as if in understanding, dropping his weight next to Merlin on his own bed.

"I will never fully understand you, Merlin."

Arthur's hand falls to his, his eyes so open that it gives a tremor coursing through Merlin's arm, but neither of them pull away.

Not feeling he deserved such a look, Merlin smiled wryly.

"…Thank you, sire."

And then, the prince chose to do something irresponsibly _brave_.

Arthur's lips grazed over the bone of his knuckles, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Merlin's skin. And Merlin didn't think it was possible to be dizzy without the sensation of helplessness…

"You don't have to thank me, Merlin."

"No, I suppose I don't have to." He whispered with the barest hint of teasing sarcasm, eyes gentle on Arthur, "You only saved my life is all."

Merlin missed the tenderness, as soon as it disappeared. Like a bone-deep ache.

"Do shut up," Arthur whispered, capturing Merlin's lips in a kiss.

A too-slow slide of Arthur's mouth pressing his. The tenderness from earlier, the very same, coupled with warmth pinpricking hundreds of nerve-ends. His mouth felt hot to the contact, as did the new flush to his cheeks. Whether spurred on by embarrassment or not, he couldn't tell.

Merlin _should_ pull away, but he won't. A wasted opportunity didn't sound nearly as good as a clumsy, sincere kiss.

Certainly wouldn't feel as _amazing_ either.

His lips opened to Arthur's, eyes lidding.

"Doing a poor job of it," he breathed out, swallowing hard when Arthur grasped his knee.

"I can fix that."

Arthur dragged his tongue across Merlin's lips, mapping inside when the demanding sensation opens a gasp from Merlin.

The heated reply accompanying Arthur's throaty growl was reason enough to shiver, to desire more. To succumb. And Merlin does, for the moment _glad_, Arthur's tongue ignoring barriers of lips and teeth. Merlin groaned at the foreign, slick sensation, but picked up on the rhythm being set. He brushed his own tongue along Arthur's, rolling it lightly against his.

One of Merlin's hands drifted to the back of Arthur's head, pale and willowy fingers tugging into blond hair.

When they parted for a few gulps of air, Arthur's weight dented the mattress further. The hands cradling Merlin's face then grabbed on to his upper arms, keeping him there.

A flash-flare of panic reared up, seizing at Merlin, and he bolted from it. Jerking away, eyes flying open, and landing flat on his back. Merlin flinched when his ribs screamed out their hurt, and screwed up his blue eyes, this time seeing the dungeon. The engulfing darkness, the stench filling his nostrils. Aredian's twisted glee.

He could still feel it… _how the shackles held him taut, muscles screaming, his voice screaming out the red-hot agony of a burning iron poker colliding into his flesh. Aredian spoke calmly over them, demanding answers. Smiling patiently_.

A choked whimper passed Merlin's lips.

"I didn't… please, I didn't do it…" he sobbed out, thrashing when hands came down upon him. "_I didn't_!"

His name being whispered.

The darkness shed out, as Merlin's eyes snapped open. The ceiling of Arthur's four-poster bed greeted his blurry vision, blurred out by tears.

He recovered to himself, slowly, slowly hearing Arthur murmuring soothing words. Registering the concern, Merlin's heart thudded a little less louder in his ears. The tension uncoiled from his shoulders and the rest of his body, bit-by-bit, as Merlin stared amazed at the man in front of him. "Arthur?" he mumbled.

"I'm here with you, Merlin," Arthur said, planting a firm, steadying kiss between his eyebrows.

A lump forced its way up his throat at the coaxing, as Arthur's thumb caressed Merlin's temple. He blinked out several tears built up in his eyes, feeling _lost_. Feeling the oxygen in his lungs fill them painfully from the ache in his chest. Feeling another sob work against Merlin's control and he bit it down, on his injured lip.

"Don't..."

It wasn't an answer either of them needed. But he was tired of lying, of having them infiltrate every aspect of Merlin's relationship with Arthur. Merlin's arm wound tightly to Arthur's neck, dragging him forward. He murmured to Arthur's shoulder, face buried in, "Don't leave."

"I give my word, Merlin." Fingers crawled into dark, unruly hair. "Not ever," Arthur added in a hot whisper.

He lifted his face from Arthur's shoulder, staring wide-eyed. Overwhelmed by the weight of it. The nudge of Arthur's thumb on his cheek prompted him to turn towards it. Merlin touched his mouth to the thumb-pad, opening against it in a kiss, straining the tip between his lips and teeth gently.

"Merlin," a low gasp. The fingers in Merlin's hair tightened a little, but didn't stop massaging.

He keened into the sensation, Arthur's name vibrating to the saliva-slickened digit. He kept a hand to Arthur's wrist, as Merlin sucked and nipped around the skin, to Arthur's nail, tasting the faint residue of steel and of perspiration. He kissed along the arch of the joint, skimming his lips to Arthur's palm.

There was nothing particularly gentle about the next hair tug—Arthur's fingers deep in black, cropped hair—but Merlin's chest didn't clench in panic. He didn't feel _afraid_ of the fierceness in teeth nipping at his lips, at their lips clashing roughly and scraping together.

"Mine."

The single word roiled Merlin's insides, warmed him, and somehow roiled his magic under the surface of Merlin's skin. He prayed to whatever deity there was in the Old Religion that his eyes don't flare with his abilities. To prevent even a chance of that, Merlin's eyes shut quickly.

He groaned towards Arthur's neck, as those teeth artfully move, tracing and sinking gently to his ears. To the lobes and the cartilage. Reddening them further than they possibly already were. Merlin almost wanted to push Arthur back, out of the surge of mortification than anything.

Merlin had never been particularly fond of his ears, much less how they stood out from his head. Like they were already done growing while the rest of him still needed to catch up.

"Tell me, Merlin."

His body shuddered when Arthur whispered into one of them, nuzzling. Begging for Merlin's verbal acceptance. It's somewhere between heart-pounding astonishment and giddiness flooding over him.

He answered grinning, every ounce of honesty in Merlin's voice, "I've always been yours, Arthur."

"_Again_."

The laugh that escaped Merlin wasn't mocking; rather, the noise clear and vibrant against the expansion of Arthur's skin.

He craved the telltale hints now, how the muscles in Arthur's arms flew as Merlin shifted above him—the faint moan working out and how Arthur's hot-slick tongue circled his in Merlin's mouth.

Merlin's hands inched across Arthur's chest, spreading flat to loose, ivory fabric.

"There isn't anyone I would trust more, with my own body than you, sire." Merlin tilted his head up, words quiet but eyes smiling and dark, "But are you so bold as to claim me for yourself so selfishly?"

"I think you'll find I am."

Arthur's growl shivered him, right down to Merlin's core, and _excited_. A mouth trails across Merlin's collar and his throat, sucking noisy kisses against him and Merlin bucked into him.

In part, he didn't want Arthur to have him like this—bruised and damaged.

But he felt safe here, in Arthur's presence, in his arms.

Merlin's head impacted one of the luxurious, stuffed pillows in Arthur's chamber-bed. The change in position brought no sudden pain to wounds or ribs, nor startled him. A favorable sign.

His fingers tightened against Arthur's scalp, deep in Arthur's hair as his chest was peppered by kisses and little pierces from the flats of Arthur's teeth. Arthur's hands slid along the shape of his thin torso and Merlin wanted to arch shameless into the skin-hot feeling. Hands so powerful, firmly muscular. Merlin's nipples ached, inflaming with the color.

He tried biting down the whimpers when Arthur blew cool air across them, his bottom lip scraping red.

Merlin decided to arch up, his hips dragging against Arthur's, their legs tangling. Merlin used the harsh grip on Arthur's head to drag the blond man back up, kissing him roughly. Swiping his tongue against Arthur's lips and parting them, earning him a pleasured sound. Feeling Arthur's body press to him.

He grinned impishly against the messy kiss, whispering, "I've yet to become impressed by your prowess, sire." Merlin set a gentle, long bite to the natural lift of Arthur's upper lip, breathing heavy.

"You shouldn't get wise with me, Merlin."

Arthur's calmly-spoken words filled him with more heat, more _need_ than what had already consuming him. Arthur's hand dipped past the band to his trousers and grasped around him. "I can be very persuasive," he said, smirking. Merlin groaned into Arthur's open mouth, pushing closer up into the slight rolling stroke on his cock, and tilting his chin, realigning their lips.

"Mm," he hummed out, grin lessened when Arthur's teeth find his ear. "Go on then." His hands squeeze the hips in his hold.

_Everything_ happened to be cords of muscle on this man, gods.

Merlin ducked his head back, meeting summery blue eyes and chuckling at Arthur's expression.

"A king is only as good as his promises to his people."

He wanted to touch more than just where his hands dug into the fabric of Arthur's trousers. Touch along with his other senses, to hear, to smell, to taste more than just contours of Arthur's lips and hollow of his mouth. Merlin pushed his hips forward and up once more, craving more of Arthur's warm hand, groaning against a temple breathlessly.

"_Yes_," left him, more of a low whine than a voice. "Yes," he repeats, mouth swollen, the cut on Merlin's bottom lip throbbing with exquisite hurt.

Arthur's weight flattened him down, sprawling him out.

He was doing it on _purpose_, going slow, and Merlin vented his frustration with a short huff of a breath, one of his legs nudging to Arthur's side. He didn't truly understand what drove him more mad: the wickedly torment of gentle fondling on his cock or Arthur's teeth scraping to his nipples when—

"Arthur, for gods sake," Merlin muttered under his breath, letting go of the hips in his hold and yanking on Arthur's hair, tugging his head to level their eyes. "I'm not _a maid_—"

"That's debatable," Arthur said, grunting a laugh.

The hand within the confines of Merlin's trousers jerked little, aggressive movements from Merlin's hips. Skin-warm fingers played along the foreskin to Merlin's hardening prick, teasing it back and letting it slid back in place, repeating, repeating until Merlin groaned breathy into his prince's ear. It felt… nothing short of amazing.

Arthur's lips grazed from his cheekbone to his mouth, kissing hard enough to signal how much he _wanted_ this.

Wanted… Merlin? Is that what this was? Were they… ?

Merlin's brain unraveled this entire situation that had escalated while locked inside a body on overload by sucks and kisses and soft bites to his abdomen. Merlin's arse could feel the smoothness of the royal sheets, squirming when his trousers were shucked off. His heart rabbited in his chest, bordering on terror, but _nothing_ like the kind Merlin had experienced in the dungeons.

No, it wasn't not the same. He was scared, properly scared, but it's more about what burned inside him.

That blind devotion, That ceaseless hope. That unbidden love to the man Merlin wouldn't for a second dare to stand idly by and watch die. To let others take Arthur from him. Merlin had killed them when their enemies tried, with colder blood than the ice running in Uther's heart.

If it had been Arthur being tortured in the dungeons… there would be no end to the suffering to the person at the other end of the iron poker.

Merlin's lips released a shaky exhale, and he glanced at his prince who had ceased his exploration, one of Arthur's hands to the flat of Merlin's sternum. "I'm alright," he lied, and such a sweet lie it was, sweetly joining their lips and Merlin whined low into it, lightly touching Arthur's back.

"Yes," Arthur said, urging, frowning to Merlin's jaw. "Now tell me honestly."

He was utterly naked in the royal prince's bed—and Arthur wanted to _talk_? The words formed so easily, blankly, "Why would I be lying to you?"

Maybe it was just him, but Arthur looked far too level-headed.

The hand down his trousers crawled out, touching Merlin's side. Arthur's other hand sliding down as Merlin scooted up on his elbows. Fighting down a cringe of pain from one of the healing wounds. The next breath out trembled. "Don't you feel…strange? How easily this happened?" Merlin asked, eyes wide and blue and honest. Face hard.

Arthur shook his head, narrow-eyed.

"You're not making sense, Merlin."

"Arthur, I want you. I can admit that. But I'm not…" Merlin's dark eyebrows creased. "I'm not a bedwarmer," he murmured. " I don't give myself to someone without knowing it can be returned. You're the prince. And I'm just a servant. What does that mean to you?"

He knew that grappling emotion on Arthur's face. Conflict. Worry and tension. And Merlin hated it. He never wanted to be the _source_ of that.

Merlin eased himself to sit up, not pulling away from him. Rather, he leaned in, determined, leaning into Arthur's breathing space. Merlin's nose and forehead gravitated towards his other half, pushing until he felt skin, golden by the sun. The tip of Arthur's nose brushed his. Merlin's lips hovering near Arthur's. "I can't help you make this decision," he mumbled, longing to kiss him again, but not giving into the strong, glorious urge. "These are your feelings, not mine."

"I don't know." Arthur expressed, touching his face, rubbing his nose against Merlin's nose. "I do know you mean… very much to me, Merlin. You may the worst servant imaginable, but I would trade you for none other."

Despite the insult, Merlin's face—despite its bruised nature—lit up beautifully with an admiring, soft grin. He pressed his forehead with teasing weight to Arthur's forehead, rubbing his nose back and chuckling.

He understood. He did. Arthur's words were genuine and devastating. The air caught in Merlin's throat, as frustration and a sense of grief bubbled in his chest.

"I know. Gods, I know this can't work…" Merlin's chuckle less lighthearted, more strained, harsh. His hands cradled Arthur's face, as Merlin's head tilted down. "It had to be you, didn't it?" he whispered, resentful. "The person I want more than anything. Who I'm destined to…"

"Destined?" Arthur echoed, confused.

Merlin's hands shifted against his cheeks, feeling the prickle of hair there. And then, Arthur's callused fingers gently touched his jaw, lifting Merlin's head. He stared back into dark blue eyes, eyes dry, inquiring and sorrowful.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered, lowly. Another lie, dark and swallowing.

Arthur would marry one day, produce an heir for Camelot. They both knew that.

That same frustration coupled with a spark of anger compelled Merlin to jerk out of Arthur's touch, his hands knuckling together at his sides. "But I don't want _one _day with you! I want…!" Merlin's voice, once deep and growling, faintened. Eyelashes wet.

He would take any Arthur would give him.

Merlin knew being angry with him would solve nothing, crying and feeling sorry for himself, and perhaps it wasn't even Arthur he's acting at to.

The bed creaked, as a lot of weight shifted, and Merlin found himself with arms clutching around Arthur, mouthing to his neck. "I can't," Merlin quietly sobbed out, and then drew in steady, calming breathes. Trying to collect himself before speaking again.

Merlin's fingers combed into the blond hairs on the back of Arthur's head, grasping there.

"In my heart, I know this. But I will."

_Gods help him_, he would do anything Arthur asked of him. Merlin's lips pushed towards the crook of Arthur's neck. "I know what you have to do," he said, murmuring. "And... I won't stand in the way of it, Arthur. Even if it feels like it would kill me."

Arthur shushed him, rocking him gently. "I know it's unfair of me to ask you this." He nudged his face into the top of Merlin's hair. "You don't have to."

_Unfair_ did little to explain the situation, or do it justice. But he kept his silence for now, wanting _this_. Wanting this closeness between them, without barriers, physical or emotional. Merlin pressed small, wet kisses to the side of Arthur's neck, feeling him shiver and laughing quietly.

Merlin arched himself into the other man, feeling him harden against him. Merlin's mouth opened, teeth grazing against a jut of vein on Arthur's throat.

"Except I want to," he answered.

His hands flattened to Arthur's chest, applying pressure until Arthur falls with his back to the sheets, and Merlin crawls between his legs, smiling thoughtfully down on him.

"...What to do with you?" he mused, as one of Merlin's hands stroked and fingered through mess of blond hairs on Arthur's chest.

Arthur laughed, high and rumbling.

"Shouldn't be that difficult to figure out."

Arthur's warm hands everywhere, a tentative but pleasant exploration. Merlin's hips rocked slightly into Arthur's below him, as he lowered towards him, enjoying the sensation of fingers combing dark strands. "Impatient prat," he fired back, affectionately, kissing Arthur back with enough flame and devotion to heat his blood.

His teeth dragged across Arthur's lower lip. Merlin's hand slid down, teasing with fingertips over Arthur's firm, solid abdomen.

An unsteady breath, and then a loud, stifled moan presses back against Arthur's mouth when Merlin's body was urged on, hands on his arse. He cursed lowly and followed the rhythm, cocks sliding together. Arthur's hands inevitably lost grip on Merlin, as the warlock scooted down Arthur's powerfully made torso, leaving trails of panting kisses.

"Found—_aah_—a better use for your mouth, haven't we," Arthur said, informatively.

Merlin chuckled, beginning to grin with lips pushed wetly to Arthur's skin. "You have no idea," he crooned, smoothing his palm across the inside of Arthur's right thigh. And then decides to show Arthur what he meant, lips brushing against Arthur's navel, tonguing around the shallow dip.

"Fuck, Merlin," he gasped, bringing a hand to Merlin's hair, digging in.

The shock of mild pain coming off Merlin's scalp aroused him more than he cared to admit. Merlin's tongue fucked a little harder, quicker into Arthur's navel, sliding along the curved, flesh shape. He heard Arthur speak, just barely above the level of tremoring, and smiled to himself.

"Patience is an admirable virtue," he said, mouthing over the dark thatch of pubic hair.

Merlin's spindly fingers grasped around Arthur's cock, running over the foreskin and easing it down. In his hand, it felt heavy and thick. Merlin was no stranger to seeing Arthur naked on occasion, but never like _this_. His lips closed over the flushed-colored, gleaming cockhead, tasting bitterness but tasting _Arthur_.

Arthur's voice heavy with lust, "_Merlin_."

Oh, he _really_ liked how Arthur said his name like that. His mouth opened wider, taking Arthur's length in slowly, and then pulling back. He repeated this, gathering saliva and feeling it trickle out of the corners of his mouth. Merlin's hands now over Arthur's thighs, up over his hipbones, thumbing the ridge.

Arthur's legs widened, allowing Merlin to move as he pleased.

But he didn't feel like moving anywhere now, groaning louder with Arthur's cock so close to his throat, a perfect and large weight. "It's hot, your mouth..."

Merlin hollowed his cheeks, sucking a little, before mouthing around the cockhead once more. He chanced looking up, through his eyelashes at Arthur's face. How Arthur's mouth slacked from louder breathing, eyes glazed with pleasure.

"Be a sorry sight if you melted now," he quipped, no longer with lips around Arthur's cock but stroking him carefully, attentively. "The night is young."

The other man grumpily pushed away Merlin's hand, starving off any remnant of an orgasm.

"As are we, Merlin."

Merlin's hands crawled back to Arthur's inner thighs, kneading the meaty flesh. He rocked down again, grinding harder, enjoying the slicker sensation of his own saliva to Arthur's cock making it easier and lessening a burn. Everything about this heady and wonderful, the smell of their arousal, the hot flush of their skin pressed to each other.

"Did you ever imagine this?"

"More often you might think," Arthur said.

The switch in positioning might have been rough as Arthur flipped them, but Merlin's slowly healing injuries are the least of his own concerns now. He buried his fingers into gold strands of hair, making a frustrated sound through his nose. The friction between them was good. But it wasn't not _enough_.

Merlin gasped, perhaps too surprised when Arthur's teeth worried over a patch of skin, bruising it into dark, beautiful color on milky skin. Merlin's naked leg curled to Arthur's back, helping him press closer. "_More_," came out breathy, high-pitched, passing Merlin's kiss-swollen lips. "More—gods, Arthur…"

Arthur smirked at the pleading tone.

"I'm going to make you feel good, Merlin. I promise."

It took a moment, but Merlin recognized the vial.

Massage oil, oh.

Arthur's right hand lowered, fingers slowly nestling inside his cleft.

_Oh_.

Merlin shivered, but didn't jerk away from the finger probing him open, biting down a moan.

"Yes…"

"Yes _what_, Merlin?" The hot pucker accepted Arthur to the knuckle. He teased, rotating his forefinger, "Out with it."

"You're…uuh, such a prat," Merlin cried out, trying consciously to keep his muscles from squeezing. Arthur's finger seemed _big_ for some reason. "I have a finger in my arse, what am I supposed to tell you—_fuck_," he swore at a particularly hard bite on his neck, Arthur's teeth pinching.

Merlin's body spasmed, but the dripping finger glided in more easily.

Soft kisses fall in cruel weight against the tender, darkened bite-mark on Merlin's neck.

"Keep going," he panted out, hands starting to claw into the sheets below him. "I—" A sharp, groaning breath left him. Merlin's toes curled and the small of his back arched in when a stab of pure ecstasy flooded him. "Gods, wh—" The little spot Arthur had pressed inside him. Oh, wow. "What was _that_?"

Arthur chuckled, mischief written in his expression. "Something very good, Here, let me show you."

The further sensations were like losing air. Little, soft cries escaped him, at each new thrust of Arthur's finger inside him, embarrassing if it wasn't so overwhelming and so damn _good_. Arthur was making it clear with a smug expression and words that he enjoyed Merlin's reaction and how untried he was.

Merlin showed momentarily frustration, and then renewed confidence when Arthur's lips returned to his, sucking at the tip of Arthur's tongue until it glides into his own mouth. It was enough of a distraction from tensing at another finger slipping in him, and from being stretched.

Arthur's teeth dragged across Merlin's cheek, nibbling on an earlobe, and Merlin almost felt the immediate urge to kick him in the stomach. (Arthur and his bloody fascination with his _ears_!) Whether or not it was sensitivity or embarrassment, Merlin could feel them burning.

Merlin's hips thrust up in a pointless attempt to gain friction, colliding into Arthur. The fingers were nice and all, but it's not what he _wanted_. This time Merlin did react, slapping Arthur's own thigh with a closed fist weakly, groaning aloud, "—gods, _damn_, will you just— —?"

"You need time to adjust, Merlin."

"Oh, _right_—"

There was a mild burn to the intrusion, fiercer than the first two fingers, but he wasn't about to utter a word of complaint. There was nothing _wrong_ with the sensation… Merlin just never felt something like this. Being full. Being full because of Arthur and still not getting _enough_.

The softness to Merlin's prick already gone, and Arthur's other hand played around the foreskin pulling taunt, around the tip. He groaned again, the sound muffled wetly to Arthur's perfect, accepting mouth.

Merlin hissed out Arthur's name, nudging the hand on his prick away. His orgasm just out of reach. He prevented it, squeezing around the base and taking deep breathes, laying back against the royal sheets. Felt as Arthur's fingers withdrew from him, leaving him strangely empty.

A layer of sticky sweat already to his bruised-laced chest and torso. Merlin's eyelids fluttered shut. When he reopened blue eyes, Merlin stared up at Arthur, expressionless.

"So you don't want to have it off?" he rasped out, corner of his mouth lifting.

Merlin's hand to his own prick squeezed once more. Making very sure sure Arthur was watching. "Isn't that what _you_ want, sire?"

"_You_ are what I want, Merlin."

A pleasant flush jolted from inside Merlin's chest, heating him.

The barefaced confession from Arthur, though overpowered om desire, swam like liquid-fire through his veins.

"And you are mine, in return," he murmured back, not meaning to voice his internal thoughts, a thumb brushing over Arthur's collarbone. The statement may have not meant anything serious to the other man, but Merlin enjoyed the familiar brush of lips to his, though seconds-long.

Like fluid motion, Arthur lifted his legs, exposing him, nearly folding him. Though Arthur knew better than to put an unnecessary strain on Merlin's slowly healing body. Merlin chewed on his lip, feeling where Arthur's tip parted him. "_Arthur_," came out a single, rushed breath, humming.

"Relax for me."

The cry tore out of Merlin soundless, and yet there all the same.

His muscles in his arse clenched, seemingly trying to force Arthur _out _as he had forced his way in. But Merlin refused it, just as he refused stopping this. Just as Merlin's vision grew from the blaze of white-out, he discovers that his eyes were surprisingly dry and his heart hasn't thumped out of his chest just yet.

"Ggh-…" Merlin's throat working against him, making it difficult to get the words out at first. Saliva dried up.

He whispered, cracking a sorry attempt of a grin, "_prat_."

The sensation of tender kisses from the other man, across the bridge of Merlin's nose, his hairline, lips, chin, and several more to his brow.

"Now," he whispered towards Arthur's ear, driving his hips up experimentally, and at the same moment grabbing at Arthur's hips.

He slowly thrust inside Merlin's heat, carefully with the shift and tandem-pull of their muscles. Pain crept on him, like his heart beating. But it's _good_. So good because they're human skin to human skin, Arthur breathing and grunting and hitching exhales against Merlin's swollen lips.

Fingers tightened in Arthur's blond hair, scraping.

"Yes," he moaned out, body arching out, color flushing, "gods yes, Arthur—"

Merlin squeezed himself around Arthur buried deep in him. Pleasure beginning to crackle over him.

"Merlin, _Merlin_…"

Arthur's mouth pressed against his neck, emitting heat. He licked his way down, face just under Merlin's ear. Merlin slipped his hands down Arthur's back, holding the other man as close as he can without breaking their thrusting, feeling his heart racing. Euphoria wrecking Merlin's voice.

But he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out, savor this. And when Arthur spurred on, faster, Merlin lost that hold completely.

When he came back from it, the throes of passion had cooled. Feeling his sweat tacking, along with milky fluid on Merlin's heaving stomach. Arthur's own orgasm jerked and settled, warming Merlin from within his very center. A tiny noise from the warlock's swollen lips. Merlin tried to fight off the sensation of wooziness, grappling at him from nowhere, and then cried out, squirming noticeably. Arthur licked thr dark, blotchy marks high up on Merlin's throat.

He pushed a hand against Arthur's muscled chest, giving a fair amount of space between them, fingers to gold curlicues of hair.

"What is it?" Arthur murmured, rubbing Merlin's naked side.

He rubbed his own bandages.

"Should rest," Merlin replied, sleepily.

"For once, you have a point." Arthur curled up to Merlin's right side, pressing into the line of his skinny body. And Merlin's heart warmed as one of Arthur's arms gently rested under Merlin's ribs, as if securing him in place, as if Merlin's place was to _belong_ here now.

"If you have… dreams," Arthur began, cautiously.

Merlin nodded wordlessly, gazing at him.

"Remember that you're here, Merlin."

_You gave your word_.

Merlin's lips curled up, fondly.

"I remember."

**.**


	13. The Deli Fic

_Title: The Deli Fic  
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_Content/Warnings: Strangers to Lovers, Modern AU, Situational Humiliation, Ass Play__  
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_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #13 "rimming"_

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Arthur couldn't remember what awful he had done to deserve this.

It couldn't have been firing his interns last November (Mordred had too much heart, and George, despite all his promising subservient tendencies, nearly bored him to death with his brass jokes.) Hell, maybe it was his young days tugging Gwen's pigtails every chance he got.

Or when he had called Morgana a no-good, smelly _girl_, as if the very word had been capable of disease.

In any case, this was considered treason in Arthur's mind.

Not that he had much to be prideful about now. Arthur had purposefully stepped down from his father's business, as well as his hefty allowance earnings (and possibly from Uther's will) to seek out his _own_ life. Find what he was good at. Study an unusual subject, maybe Engineering or Classics; be involved in something that didn't involve cost benefits or any stock exchange.

Turned out, it was all good in theory. Living on your own, as much as attending university, benefited from _costs_.

Hence: the local deli.

It paid well. There were many available hours. His mates were fantastic about the job—when they weren't being complete tossers.

Elyan thought himself a cheeky git and handed Arthur the scrap of ticket, staring expectantly. Arthur grimaced visibly at the printed, double-digit number and then sent the same look at the other highly amused man.

"You're an arse," he muttered, ignoring the snicker.

Arthur's voice boomed out.

"Number _69_!"

A nearby teenage girl in waist-high khaki shorts let out a cackle.

Christ no, he wasn't turning funny colors. He _wasn't_.

"69!"

Stubbornly, Arthur kept his expression blank as he glanced the deli's occupants. Even if it _felt_ like his face was growing hot. This was—utter rubbish. Elyan was going to pay _dearly_ later.

Suddenly, an arm rose, pale-skinned and covered with dark hairs.

"I volunteer," a boy called out, full lips curling.

A twitch of something peculiarly _nice_ went down Arthur's spine at the self-satisfied, low baritone. Sounded a lot older than he looked.

For a moment, Arthur forgot his embarrassment and the awkwardly high laughter surrounding him in favor of this brave idiot.

Dark, comfortably baggy clothes matching his dark, messy hair and the hand attached to the arm had rather long, bony fingers. With fingernails painted an immaculate, glossy black. The brightest feature to him however was the _eyes_—a horribly romantic blue that probably spawned poetry equally as horrific. Arthur had never been a fan of poetry.

But the way this boy was looking at him… …

… Arthur could do with a poetry lesson or two. Preferably rigorous and oral.

"I'm Merlin." he introduced himself around closing, after hanging back and chatting with a few strangers. Strangers to Arthur at least.

Except Gwaine. Sometimes Arthur wished Gwaine was a sodding stranger. Merlin's grip came across warm and pleasantly strong. A flash of titanium ball poked between Merlin's teeth as he spoke, the tongue ring signaling a '_fucking suck me_' to Arthur.

"Ar—Arthur. I'm Arthur."

He shook Merlin's hand clumsily, joining him on the sidewalk while Elyan finished closing with a wink, trying not to stare more than necessary.

Merlin grinned at the verbal stumble.

"I'm thinking you're not from around here, mate," he announced, as if it were the most plainly obvious thing, but still needed to be acknowledged.

"_Barmy_," Arthur said, not bothering to hide the sarcastic quirk of his lip.

The evening air smelled like it was going to start pouring rain again. He pulled his jacket closer to him, shying away to avoid a small group weaving themselves by, too caught up in a mutual joke to notice any others. A burst of rowdy laughter in the distance.

This time, he caught Merlin staring at him, but with curiosity.

"Alright there, _mate_?" Arthur's voice clipped.

"You look like you could use some loosening up, eh…"

That gorgeous tongue would definitely be the ticket for it, Arthur thought with heat gathering in his belly. Waiting for the plunge, so to speak.

"I'm… open to suggestions."

"Thought you said you were _Arthur_," came a snorting, amused breath. That was enough ridiculousness for Arthur's sanity before he had his fingers carding Merlin's thick curls, their mouths sucking eager kisses and then slowly licking apart, hands roaming necks and shoulders.

Not giving zero damns that they were still in front of the deli's entrance.

Whether or not Merlin had went for the opportunity first or not, he didn't hear any rebuttals on the subject, Merlin's hands now yanking the collar of Arthur's thrifted, neon-bold jacket and getting him closer.

The twin titanium balls rolled against Arthur's tongue, sliding easily with their mingled saliva, addictive metallic and salty and the brand new taste of Merlin. When he curled the tip of his tongue around the bottom of one, teasing it lightly, Merlin groaned his approval, warm gusts of breath into Arthur's mouth, scrambling for a better hold on Arthur.

Fortune was that Merlin often kept his word, and did it with a bleedin' smile on his face, shoving Arthur into his terribly cramped flat.

And once getting past the "I'm clean—you're clean—I haven't been with a girl bare in well over a year—and you have loads more condoms than Gwaine _what the hell_" he tugged off Arthur's rain-splattered jacket and his clothing with the vigor of a man only an hour or two left to him.

With his teeth. Not all with his teeth.

But Arthur strangely liked the enthusiasm.

"Holy _shite_, fuck, Merlin," Arthur managed to get out, canting, feeling Merlin's thumbs rub into his arse's cleft. "Is this—?"

"—a good idea?" Merlin added thoughtfully, stroking until Arthur's muscles clench less. "Don't think I'd be bollocks out with you if you were a creep. Though… you do seem like a dollophead."

"_W__hat_?"

Arthur reached back to swat at him, unsuccessful in gauging the distance, and Merlin's sudden laugh drifted in pleasantly.

Lips pressed a path of sweet kisses to Arthur's cleft, and Merlin's tongue wetly nudged against his hole, spearing in and coiling. The brush of cool metal balls fondling Arthur's rim. He nearly caved to a whispery scream.

He didn't have the nerve to tell him this was the first time Arthur was bedding a complete stranger, and Merlin… didn't feel like a stranger.

_At all_.

He was comforting, with real, hot skin pressed against him. He had horrifically poetic blue eyes. A pseudo-punk rock sense of fashion.

More importantly, Arthur didn't believe Merlin showing up at the deli and raising his hand was entirely a universal coincidence.

Seeking out his _own_ life led him to Merlin.

Arthur wouldn't take that back for any amount of financial security.

"Oi, dollophead," Merlin called out drowsily an hour later, affectionately. He squirmed against Arthur's weight, nudging a glossy black fingernail to a shoulder. "Geddoff."

**.**


	14. Hello Again, My Dear

_Title: Hello Again, My Dear  
_

_Content/Warnings: Fluff and Angst, Modern Era, Immortal Merlin, Reincarnation__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #14 "69"_

* * *

**.**

**.**

It's a Wednesday, and it's a terrible, beautiful day.

The day everything Merlin built up in place to withstand his immortal days comes to ruins.

He stands motionless in the Promenade of Light on Old Street, and Merlin's heart restarts to emotions not felt in over a thousand years.

The man who was Arthur carries a brolly and a shopping bag, one speckled with glistening droplets and the other made of cheap, brown packaging. His hair a shade redder than blond, eyes darker. Features less square and defined, his ears gauged with tie-dye color silicon plugs.

Once he knows, the very stars pull themselves in realignment and the universe holds its measureless breath, along with a dismayed Merlin.

It's _him_. The earth's magic knows, as well as him, surrendering to the thrum.

Arthur's eyes peer up from his mobile, blinking over his thick-rimmed glasses, as if mystified at nothing particular. He then spots Merlin, almost tripping over himself sprinting towards him, pleasantly concerned and _ignorant_.

He _doesn't_ know Merlin, not even while clasping onto Merlin's trembling, sweaty hand. He doesn't know after accepting the rushed invitation for a stroll, and then finding themselves paying-per-minute at the _Ziferblat_ cafe, impressed by the aesthetic decor, snaking on thin biscuits and losing £9 in five, splendid hours of intimate conversation.

Besides the differences—this Arthur's three younger brothers, his disinterest in any involvement of spectator sport, never once called Merlin a _buffoon_—it's _his_ Arthur.

The way he threw his head back when he laughed. How willing Arthur had been to put other people's needs before his (giving his second kidney to one of his brothers). How open-hearted Arthur's facial expressions could be when he and Merlin were alone).

It takes _everything_ Merlin's built up inside him not to take Arthur's face into both of his hands, touch him fondly and affirm this was no dream.

Arthur's a ginger. He wore _indie_ jeans. His fleshy cock would fill the lining of Merlin's mouth so nicely, hot and stiff and drooling pre-cum. He would lay on top of him, sucking him down, feeling Arthur reversed beneath him, opening his lips to Merlin's cockhead and breathing on it.

He would let Arthur fuck up into his mouth, quickening the pace as his own cock dug into Arthur's whimpering throat, trapped in slickness and convulsing heat. Because they never _did_ fuck, and Merlin regretted that.

Hundreds of years, of regret and of waiting, of death around him. Arthur's own death ravaged the hearts of many true to him in Camelot.

The night of the candlelight vigil for the Once and Future King, for a _good_ king and a good man, could have been mistaken for a second dawn. Mills of people streamed below the citadel, thronging the roads from the lower town and even dully glowing from the furthermost of the outlying villages.

He and Arthur's wife—one of Merlin's dearest friends—remained in the tower, suffering the enveloping, comforting dark of the bedchamber.

Gwen eventually summoned her nerve, dabbing her eyes with a linen handkerchief. She called out to Merlin, softly, and then firmly. And when he did not move an inch from the window, Gwen had bent him forward and kissed his bow in understanding. Wiping the moisture from his cheeks with swipes of her lovely, warm thumbs.

She had joined her people and the knights as another mournful flicker, marching with her own candle. Merlin had no light to offer, to carry then.

There would never be a light worthy of Arthur. Not _one_.

Not until they shone against Arthur's navy military pea coat, illuminating the halo of his reddish-blond hair and Merlin thrums along with his magic.

It's Wednesday, and he says goodbye to Arthur, nudging his elbow.

But not for long.

Merlin's world had just _restarted_.

**.**


	15. The One With A Film Class Experiment

_Title: The One With A Film Class Experiment  
_

_Content/Warnings: First Kiss, Modern AU, Strangers, Flirting, Sexual Tension__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #15 "sweet and passionate"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

He was running late.

Professor Muirden would mark him for _another_ absence—sixth one this month—if Merlin walked into his class _on time_, barely late at all. But Edwin Muirden also hated his grandfather, so by association: he hated Merlin.

Something about Gaius not willing to hire him as an apprentice, and finding him unteachable and _selfish_, and Merlin couldn't agree more.

The urban sidewalk was surprisingly not clogged this morning, leaving Merlin the opportunity to maneuver faster, but no less a klutz.

Canvas rolls tumbled out of Merlin's hands, right into a large puddle.

"Oh no, no," he mumbled, frantically scrambling on his knees, dropping his easel and tote bag. Merlin groaned as his colored tubes of new acrylic paints and uncapped brushes spilled out. "Shit, _c'mon_!"

This couldn't get any worse. It really couldn't. Except for a vehicle driving up on the edge of the sidewalk and killing him on impact. As Merlin shook the puddle water off his art supplies, imagining how much _less_ stress he would have to deal with, a person stood over him.

"Excuse me?… _Excuse me_?" they called out meekly. A girl.

Merlin said irritated, not looking up, shoving a fistful of his tube paints into his bag, "As you can see, I'm a little busy at the moment—unless you'd like to, y'know, _help_!" A chord of guilt struck him as the girl eeped.

A new voice huffed, "Oh for goodness sake, Eira!"

Merlin flailed against the slim, delicate arm hooking his and pulling him back onto his feet. _Strong_ delicate arm. Stronger than him.

He stared, interest piqued.

"My name is Morgana," the woman told him, smile emitting professional courtesy. The black and grey piped-floral dress tight on her curvy body. Her entire wardrobe and hair looked very styled and _very_ posh. "I'm heading project for my film class and I'd like you to consent for it."

Merlin remembered to breathe after a moment. Was she an art student, too?

"Are you from the local uni?" he asked, excited.

"Yes," she said, then casting a benign look at his wet canvas. Merlin looked over his shoulder, eyes rueful. "I'm assuming we both are."

Merlin really didn't feel like coming into the studio with dripping things and gravel-dirtied knees and letting his professor have the satisfaction of beholding Merlin's wounded indignation as he personally ruined Merlin's life.

Skipping classes was _Merlin's_ decision. He'd deal with the consequences later with Agravaine, at the guidance counselor's office—a whole different level of _arrogant prick_.

He shouldered his bag of supplies, ignoring the traitorous puddle.

"I'd love to help," Merlin said, nodding to both Morgana and the meek Eira who lowered her gaze and handed the other woman a clipboard.

"These are your consent form. Read through at your leisure, and then sign here." Merlin poked the red ballpoint pen from the metal ring above the forms, clicking it ready. "Here, here, initial here," Morgana tapped the blank spaces at rapid pace, naming them off; he kept up.

"Another initial here."

Merlin nervously searched out the teeny blank space before she sighed, exasperated, tapping it on the far corner.

"Date and sign here, thank you," Morgana said primly, taking not only the clipboard but handing off Merlin's bag to the girl. "Eira, don't just _stand_ there—put this with Arthur's things."

Somewhat disappointed, he didn't feel Morgana hook their arms again but she did place a palm on his lower back, guiding him ahead of her.

The empty warehouse did give Merlin paranoid thoughts for a moment (kidnapping, drugged experimentation, black marketing his organs or maybe a weird sex dungeon with spreader bars and cages and whips). But Morgana was very, _very_ pretty. Even if this was an elaborate trap for Merlin's kidneys, he had a full thing of mace in his pocket.

(His mum thought it would safer for Merlin to have it while living in the big city.)

"So… a film project about strangers kissing?" Merlin asked once they were inside a semi-lit corridor, leading the way.

"Quite exciting, wouldn't you say so?" Morgana's demeanor thawed to more cheerful and genuine. "Do you have a preference?"

At the confused noise, she added suggestively, "… Men? Women?"

Merlin shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"You, my dear… " Morgana waited for his name, not pushing him forward anymore.

He turned around to her, grinning, saying helpfully, "Merlin."

"_Merlin_," she said with slow, mock-importance, "are a man of honor."

**.**

**.**

Morgana discussed her project a little bit during the long walk.

"I've handpicked the pairs myself."

"Will you be…?" Merlin trailed off, hopeful.

He wouldn't mind kissing her.

Even with all the glossy, bright red lipstick on her cupid's bow mouth.

"No," she said flatly, but gave Merlin a searching, empathic look that reassured him. "I'm the director, love. _Not_ a participant."

_Damn_.

"Worth a shot," he said, grinning again and was favored a sympathetic pat on the lower back.

"Shot in the dark, I'm afraid. _Speaking of_—"

He jerked in place, feeling her wrap a band of cloth to his eyes. Merlin remembered vaguely the forms mentioning the project going in ___blind_. "It's just my scarf, no need to be afraid," she shushed him, tying it securely.

The rest of the walk felt extremely disorienting, relying on Morgana's hands and his other senses to get him where he needed to be.

(Where was that? Merlin didn't exactly know. He heard something whirring, and their footsteps, and then ___didn't _because Merlin found himself walking on loose fabric, thicker like muslin, and stopped.)

"Merlin, your things are safe with me, and ___this_," he listened to her, eyes blinking the darkness, feeling a not-so delicate hand slipped over his, "is your partner. I'll be with the camera in the meantime." The hand on Merlin's was definitely masculine, warm and rough with calluses.

Merlin's fingers twitched, but when the hand started to quickly release him, Merlin regrasped at it, slipping the man's fingers through the crevices and nudging their hands together. His ears caught a loud intake of breath, not quite alarmed but not quite happy either.

"Whenever you are ready, you both can start."

"When can we take off...?" Merlin gestured slightly to the top of his head.

"For now, keep them on," she instructed, voice amplified and... was Morgana using a ___megaphone_? For some reason, that made him chuckle.

The other man grunted at the response, stepping back tentatively when Merlin took an automatic step forward, letting go of their hands.

"Can I...?" he asked. Merlin's hands gently set on his upper arms. When the stranger repeated the motion, Merlin took his cue. Kept it gentle. He moved his hands lightly over the slopes of broad, muscular shoulders, exploring with care, over his shirt and feeling the man's heart go fast.

Flat, wide pectorals, and down lower was a flat abdomen with not an ounce of extra fat to be had. Merlin wouldn't have cared either way.

He felt like... a military bloke, perhaps. With all the sinew and hard muscle.

"Mm, you feel nice..."

He became so distracted in ___appreciating_ hat Merlin was surprised that another hand grasped his chin, steadying his face up. The kiss didn't happen immediately, no dramatic swoop, no clumsily bashing noses.

The other man's lips hovered over Merlin's cheek, and Merlin aided him, turning for the right angle and slotting their mouths to an easy fit.

Were they both blindfolded in front of everyone? Must have been.

Merlin was about to press a bit closer into him, to this body and mouth, to run the tip of his tongue against the a soft inside of bottom lip... when the hand left Merlin's chin, and the other man separated them.

"Too fast for you?" Merlin asked, not meaning to have it taunting like that, but frustrated for no proper reason other than he ___wanted _more.

"...Are you nervous?" he tried again, sounding kinder.

"I don't get nervous."

Merlin snorted. "Really? I thought everyone got nervous—" And the lips returned, crushing harder, fiercer, with hands holding Merlin's face.

He shuddered into a teasing, rolling lick and combated it with energetic suck, pulling the other man's tongue into Merlin's welcoming mouth.

The bloke knew how to ___kiss_.

But so did Merlin.

They both got lost in it, moaning and breathless, chest-to-chest. Merlin's fingers clutched to the nape of a downy-haired neck. He slowly rocked between two hands gripping his ass and the faint thrusts against him.

"—ut! For fuck's sake, Arthur! ___Cut_!"

Morgana's voice did just that, cutting Merlin out from the daze. He had no idea if the forms permitted him to remove the blindfold just now, but...

To hell with it.

He wretched off the banded scarf, eyes adjusting to the glare-lighting of the warehouse and to the sublime view of his partner removing his, too.

Oh, ___hell_.

Sun-kissed face, big blue eyes, and great hygiene. No military haircut in sight. Tailored dress clothes.

With glee, Merlin realized the other man's cheeks were flushed, and his lips deliciously reddened and swollen.

He looked just as posh as Morgana (were they related?—even with her pale green eyes and not so blonde curls) but far more ___gorgeous_, and Merlin needed to stop that. He needed to stop thinking about that because his dick was hard and Arthur had been hard against him, and he still wanted to know how it fit with Arthur rutting the crease of his ass.

___Arthur_.

Morgana had said Arthur. To them. To the bloke.

He questioned, uncertainly, "Your name is Arthur?"

A nod.

"I'm Merlin."

He knew what he probably looked like to Arthur: a poor, eccentric university student, with woolen, fingerless gloves and bundled layers of jumpers. Cheeks flaming against pasty skin. He got one of his suitemates to bleach the tips of his hair, after growing it out from a hideous bowl-cut, and then dye them a vibrant blueberry color. They looked wicked all gelled into spikes. Merlin smelled like varnish and his paints and the cold outdoor air. Unlike Arthur who smelled like cologne on hot, rosy skin.

A skeptical, close-mouthed noise. Arthur examined him.

"Not bad."

"___Not bad_?" Merlin parroted, scornful. "You're a right git, aren't you?"

In the background, a few snickers from the cameraman and technician. Eira gaping. Morgana hid an amused smile behind her clipboard.

Arthur shook his head, as if he believed he hadn't heard Merlin correctly.

"Excuse me?"

"No, ___you're right_," Merlin said, not missing a beat with his sarcasm. "It's not like you had your hands on my arse or anything like that."

Arthur jerked a finger warningly in Merlin's direction, eyebrows hitched.

"I was... in the moment," he concluded. "That's it. It was for the _film_."

He pulled his finger away as Merlin leaned in, an inch taller than him, grinning; a child with a tasty lollipop and not likely to keep it a secret.

"So you ___don't _wanna keep doing it?" he asked, blue tips and blue eyes.

Arthur gazed over Merlin's confident expression, over all of him.

Morgana flipped on her megaphone, calling out, "Alright, that's enough for today. Now if you lot would just come evaluate the—"

"___Do not _put words in my mouth," Arthur said to Merlin, leaning in as well and gliding his hands over Merlin's hips, deceasing their space.

Merlin laughed softly at the biting tone.

"Then can I put something else in your mouth?"

Arthur's fingers tightened on him, sending invisible currents of heat-sensation and ___need__ t_hrough him. "You are far too cheeky, ___Mer_lin."

"That doesn't sound like a complaint to me."

"It isn't," Arthur told him, lips curling up.

Merlin's stomach did an easy somersault inside him but lacking any nausea, as he was hoisted up into Arthur's arms. Merlin's legs wrapped to Arthur's waist to keep himself there. He may have been taller than Arthur, but weighed less and he _r____eally _enjoyed the thought of Arthur manhandling him around, tugged by the collar or lifted off Merlin's feet.

Merlin framed his wool-gloved hands to Arthur's face, giving him one more delighted look before opening his mouth wide, craning his neck and overtaking Arthur's mouth, pushing in happily with his tongue.

The arms tucking under Merlin and groans of ecstasy—_jesus_, Merlin was going to kiss him stupid later, open Arthur with his lubricated fingers, and make love to him until they're both dried up and exhausted and gross.

And they were gonna cuddle afterwards because the only thing better than a mind-blowing shag was a mind-blowing shag ___and _cuddling—and if Arthur wasn't a cuddler, Merlin was going to change his mind.

Because it couldn't get worse anymore. Not when things were _so__good_.

**.**

**.**

Morgana lowered the device, cocking her head. Eyes gleaming.

"You're still filming, right?" she asked her cameraman Leon, neither of them looking away from the continued affectionate display.

"Absolutely."

"___Good_," she said aloud, smirking. Professor Kilgharrah was gonna eat this up.

**.**


	16. Escape

_Title: Escape  
_

_Content/Warnings: Fuck or Die, Blood and Gore, Public Sex, Dubious Consent, Comfort/Angst__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #16 "in public place"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Chaos erupted.

For one moment, Arthur was standing impatiently in line to exchange leftover Swiss currency into usable bank pounds—and the next, he was skidding on his ass and the balls of his heels, away from the pop of gunfire.

People screaming, fleeing. Bumping into each other in the dark.

The artificial lighting flickered out, and huge metal shields rose up from the ground, blocking out the sun from the windows and all the doors.

An emergency lock-down.

Trapped inside with several, dark-clad men with rifles. They barked out orders, to each other, to everyone else, demanding for silence. Demanding for everyone's mobiles—whatever electronics they had.

Arthur's eyes squinted and adjusted to the lack of light, and now the bloody glow of the _EXIT_ signs. He counted out six men. Six robbers and possibly thirty patrons, including the bank's manager and employees.

He knew the bank was prestigious, well-known. Kept vaults of priceless items and likely treasured gems, but hardly encountered a security breach like this. Judging by the power outage, there was no working cameras, no way for the police to know what was happening.

And with everyone's things collected in a garbage bag or two, there was no hope in reaching the outside world at this stage.

Arthur did eye a handheld radio on the leader's hip, probably to issue the ransom.

The hostages—not _people_; they all were no longer people but commodities of flesh—ran for their lives and pinned themselves from the center of the lobby. He watched them press themselves to each other and attempt to hold back tears. Some didn't, weeping loudly.

A man, and a woman, already dead, both shot in the head. One appeared to be an employee, and the other wearing a jogging suit.

The red glow of the signs blackened the liquid pooling around them.

"Anyone else who feels like arguing about their _rights_—" A gunman bellowed out, sneering through his hooded mask, "—can get the next bullet _straight up their fucking ass_! Is that understood?"

One of the tellers muttered something venomous in his direction, and Arthur winced to himself, turning away as the rifle's butt swung hard.

Idiot. Stupid, idiotic pillock. Did he _want_ to get everyone killed?

As the bank robbers settled themselves in, grouping the hostages, patrolling the lobby and ferreting out anyone hiding in the back—Arthur folded his hands together, steepling his fingers under his chin and gravely considered his options. No one would be foolish enough to join him in devising a plan to overpower their captors, not with the guns.

He couldn't be sure if the police would arrive soon enough before more triggers were pulled, to disarm the emergency security system, to break in, or to even offer a suitable compromise for the safety of everyone else.

But Arthur did need to speak to _someone_ who could listen.

The teller propped himself up against the wall, hunched over slightly and groaning softly. His ivory shirt-sleeve darkened with his blood.

Although he was only a couple feet away, Arthur practiced discretion.

He went into a slow, careful crawl to the other man, using the weight of his knees to cushion any noises and lifting his feet up. Arthur's blasted dress-shoes tended to squeak like rubber against the floors.

"You alright there, mate?" Arthur muttered, casting a glance over at the closest gunman poking around. He hadn't been noticed.

A wet nasally laugh.

"… 'sides from my face being on fire, yea, sure."

Arthur couldn't believe his nonchalance. Then again, most anyone dealt with blood loss and trauma in different, strange ways. He scooted nearer.

"You're fortunate you're not… "

No, Arthur couldn't bring himself to suggest it. Not with two lifeless bodies on the other end of the room.

He stripped off his business jacket with ease, a three-button _Dormeuil_, bunching it up in his hands and passing it to the bleeding man.

"Let me see, that's it," Arthur said, gently lowering the man's sleeve. There was a name-tag pinned on the man's work shirt. He could barely make it out, but did note a fancy cursive "M" at the beginning. Arthur examined his thin face, his newly blood-crusted nose.

"Might not be fractured," he said, finally. "It could have been worse."

Another laugh, more breathy.

"This calls for a drink," M said, dryly.

"If we get out of this alive, I'll buy you the pub _and_ name it after you."

The other man raised his eyebrows high, pressing Arthur's jacket to his face, applying tender pressure to his nostrils.

"Not sure if I should be flattered or very worried."

"Both," Arthur replied, sitting back down on his right side. He flashed a smile. "I'm very conscientious about how I spend my money."

A fair-faced woman studied them curiously when M's eyes crinkled from his own silent, mirroring grin. She leaned towards Arthur.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Yes," he said. "And you might be?"

"Finna."

"Nice to meet you." Arthur shook her outstretched, portly hand, "Though… I would have to admit I rather have done it under less dire circumstances."

M grumbled, "That's an understatement."

She looked between him and Arthur, helpless, wringing her hands.

"What do you t-think we should do?"

Arthur couldn't think of a way to answer her. Not without revealing hid earlier strategy, which was becoming less and less feasible.

M gestured them closer with his empty hand.

"In the office, there's a large button under the desk. I was told during my orientation that it was created for the bank as a reverse fail-safe to emergency security protocol. It will lower the shields on the doors," he said, wiping blood on his trousers. "If I could sneak back into the office… "

Arthur shook his head. "Then you'll leave a trail behind you." He peered over at Finna who shrunk back. "I'll go," he announced, grimly.

"You _can't_."

"She's right, you'll end up like Kara if you do that," M said, looking ahead and jerking his chin in another direction. Arthur was guessing one of the bodies had been his female coworker. "I should go. I _know_ where it is."

He was completely _mad_—that must have been what the "M" stood for.

Arthur grabbed his shoulder.

"I'm not letting you risk your life for this," he whispered furiously, pushing away the expensive jacket thrust at him.

M narrowed his eyes, an ugly, scarlet glow to his blue irises.

"I'm not _asking_."

At the low, determined growl, Arthur stared incredulous. Every person in this building could be slaughtered together like cattle, likely was going to be, and M had the _audacity_ to fight with Arthur about who was going first.

"Were you always this—?"

"_Oi_!" One of the gunmen barged over, aiming his loaded rifle. "What the _HELL_ are you lot doing? Back against the wall with the rest!"

When no one moved, he shouted, "Are you deaf or just _stu_—!"

M loudly spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm at him, hitting the mask.

The gunman swore, cocking the rifle at him, finger curling on the trigger.

Arthur yelled, "_No_!" flinging himself in front of a self-satisfied M. He spread out his arms, breathing hard, feeling the twin barrels to his chest.

"You really willing to _die_ for this piece of fucking _shit_?"

"Spare him, just," Arthur said, heart rapid-fast in his throat. M's scrawny knees dug into his back. "Please, I'm begging you."

Another gunman, with the radio device, walked up.

"Lower the gun and tie him up," he ordered coolly, pointing over Arthur's shoulder. "We'll find a better use for him. And _YOU_ rich man, I want you to shut it or I kill both of your little friends."

Finna seized Arthur's wrist, keeping him in place as the two robbers hauled a bloody M onto his feet, dragging him to their equipment.

"Don't," she shushed him.

In the distance, they could hear M talking casually, putting on a brave show. Grinning and mouthing off.

"Go."

Arthur frowned at her. Finna released his wrist, tossing him a severe look. "Go _now_, boy! This is the opportunity we need!"

"You expect me to—"

"I don't _know_ you, but," she pleaded. "You have to do this. I don't want to die and I don't think you do either. You're the only hope now."

He curled a lip at her, watching her expression drop.

"If _anything_ happens to him, I'm holding you personally responsible," Arthur murmured, voice edged in malice. "Am I making myself clear?"

A fearful nod.

"Y-yes, of course."

"_Finna_." The plump, dark-haired woman stiffened as if expecting a lash, but appeared confused as Arthur's features softened in a sort of melancholy and kindness. "Take care of yourself," he said, quietly.

**.**

**.**

Seven robbers and twenty-eight hostages.

Arthur was surprised he made it unnoticed in the office, knowing the many eyes of the others trapped could see him. But they pretended to see nothing, even going so far in risking their lives for Arthur to distract the gunmen passing by with neutral, probing comments.

Nothing like a crisis to bring everyone together for a common goal.

He thought he had it. Arthur thought he made it, crawling on his belly to the office carpet, reading for the underside of the table, fingers groping.

Then, he was _yanked_ away.

Arthur wrestled against the last unarmed gunman, headbutting him and then getting punched across the face. Arthur's vision spun wildly and he sank back onto the floor, tasting something like warm, sour bile.

_The button_.

Groaning, Arthur kicked repeatedly for it. But he knew he had missed, as the gunman's arms lugged him out of the office, down the unlit hallway.

He failed.

Against the same wall, with the potted plants above, Finna sat with her hands presented out in surrender, wide-eyed at the gunman on her.

"—_getting a helicopter out of the deal—_"

The leader gunman patted his radio absently, saying thoughtfully, "We should keep at least three hostages. Take them with us."

"And _throw them out_ of the helicopter!" One man cackled. "Teach those—"

With a small groan, Arthur found himself dumped at their feet. His vision no longer spinning about him and limbs regaining their feeling. He turned his head and the next inhale strangled itself. M laid curled to himself, tears gather in his eyes. His blood-flecked, work trousers had been shoved down his pale thighs.

He… what was…

"Found this one here!"

Arthur had been moved forward on his knees, under the scrutiny of the bank robbers. His hands being forced together and knotted behind him.

"Have him do it." The cackling gunman nudged the leader's side, ignoring a mean glare. He egged on, "Have him _fuck_ the little ponce."

"You're a dodgy bloke, Mick."

"Need a little _entertainment_. I fucking hate the waiting. It's like they want everyone to die." He motioned with his high-powered rifle to a group of teenagers. A sudden predatory grin. "Or we can take one of the girls."

M's ruined, crimson-stained collar was seized, as he jolted upright.

Arthur watched him get roughly thrown aside, right beside Arthur. M's prick hung out of his trousers and underwear, dusky and dusky and flaccid.

The leader gunman pulled out a revolver, pressing it to the back of M's skull.

"Do it, and maybe you both can walk away with your lives."

Arthur felt like screaming at the top of his lungs, ripping out of his constraints and tearing at his hair. What the _fuck_ was happening… ?

"Do _what_?"

He started, reflexively twisting, when M's warm hands cupped his face.

"It's okay, Arthur," M whispered against his mouth, lips even warmer. "_S'okay_, shh."

M's hands dropped to the buttons on Arthur's trousers, popping them open and he moaned, writhing as the other man bent over him, mouthing Arthur's now engorged cock and slobbering excessively around it.

It must have been only several minutes, but it seemed too brief, as M composed himself. Full lips gleaming with a layer of saliva.

"_I'd prefer it was you_," he murmured into the crook of Arthur's neck.

The rifle didn't move from them as M adjusted himself, kneeling over Arthur's legs, pushing his trousers further down his legs.

Leaving a shameless view of his round, pert ass.

No one said anything. Not the robbers growing interested, not the hostages averting their eyes. Not Finna swallowing a whimper.

A pencil falling would have sounded like an asteroid hitting the ceiling.

M sucked three fingers audibly into his mouth, tonguing them, reaching and pressing into himself. He pumped his hand, raggedly breathing.

He couldn't…

Dazed, Arthur bucked his hips as if to get away, but didn't manage it.

"M-___no_," he gasped, bound wrists struggling to free themselves.

"_Have to_."

Arthur gasped again, this time in some pain as M's hole clenched him up to the root, too tight. Too, too tight and hot. He couldn't move like this.

M let out a choked, awed sob, arms trembling. He rocked a little, involuntarily, rocked Arthur's cock inside him, muscles like a vice.

The muzzle of a rifle touched Arthur's scalp, pressing harshly.

"Look at him take it," one gunman spoke up. "Just like a slut. Cock-_slut_."

Arthur wanted to knock them all out, break apart the guns. He wanted to just hold M against him, alone. Run a hand up his back. Soothe him.

But he couldn't _do _anything, not even bloody make himself come.

And then, they were all going to die.

He jerked up into M's heat, spine relaxing. Bright sunlight—___wait__—_

With a whir of electricity, the metal shields to the bank's doors and windows lowered. Overhead lights flickering back on.

"_DROP YOUR WEAPONS_!"

Swarms of police burst in, from different hallways, through the front, glass doors—that was the last thing Arthur saw before passing out.

**.**

**.**

"Everyone made it out—thought you should know that."

Lying back out on the ambulance cot, Arthur nodded. He apparently missed four of the robbers getting shot and being carried out.

M grinned, nose washed off and bruised to a plum-dark. "They said you'd be alright." He brushed his mouth softly to Arthur's knuckles.

"But are _you_ alright?"

"Stop, m'fine."

M—___Merlin _rolled his eyes and Arthur's gut tingled pleasantly. Idiot.

"Sooo, you still gonna name a pub after me?"

**.**


	17. Give Us Peace

_Title: Give Us Peace  
_

_Content/Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Barebacking__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #17 "on the floor"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

He has noticed by now that Arthur likes Merlin having him against fur rugs.

Which is a shame. Arthur's bed has a very cosy plush to it.

But it's _Arthur_, and he's the _king_ of Camelot. He gets what he wants.

(Except when Merlin likes to tickle him into submission, flailing between Arthur's legs and yelping when smacked on the bum; or he fucks him into brain-melting oblivion—still between Arthur's legs, but they feel much nicer pushed back with Merlin's hands.)

There's probably some rubbish about _primal instinct_, or tradition, or subject to an elusive fetish Merlin didn't have the damnedest about.

But he can't imagine that at the moment—the perfect, golden crease of Arthur's buttocks against the firelight, watching the salve and Merlin's emptied come begin to drip out and streak Arthur's skin and his thighs, or how _warm_ he had been for Merlin. A living, enveloping friction of heat.

No, absolutely. Merlin's definitely not imagining it.

Because he's far too busy being anxious and pacing around to _moon over_ his dearest person—not that Arthur's ego needed more stroking.

"Are we sure about this… ?"'

Merlin slows himself, making sue to stop in front of the crackling fireplace. It's freezing during the evening in the bedchamber otherwise and Arthur's all contently wrapped up in the gray-brown furs he stole. His throat burns like Merlin's getting a stomachache. And really, Arthur needs to stop looking so _calm_ while Merlin feels like his head might spin off.

"Well?" he asks, trying to not raise his voice.

Arthur gazes up from staring wordlessly, absently licking his lips. He had been running his eyes hungrily over Merlin's darkly-haired legs and his compact torso, over the expansion of bare skin—like he's a _feast_, not a panicking man.

"Merlin, I'm the king," he says flatly. "I'm always sure."

"_Augh_, you know what I mean!"

Merlin rubs his hands over his forehead, tilting his face up and hears Arthur mutter something about _delicate petticoats_.

"You're going to appoint me Court Sorcerer, honestly?"

One of the furs drops from Arthur's shoulders, revealing his unlaced tunic. He scratches at his underarm through the silky, white tunic.

"The ban on magic _will_ be repealed," Arthur tells him. "As soon as I convince the members of my counsel that it's the _right_ decision." Arthur's brow finally goes stern and Merlin's just relieved he's taking this serious decision _seriously_. "Sir Lanval agrees that it's been put off for too long since I've been given the crowd. They'll see sense, I promise you."

It would be reassuring except Merlin isn't a clotpole. Arthur is.

"You mean the old cankered bats who supported Uther's decision to slaughter whole households for over twenty years?" Merlin blatantly ignored the warning growl from Arthur. "You think _they'll_ see sense?"

"Then I'll make them."

"No, Arthur. Doing this by force won't give us any peace."

Merlin sighs aloud, dragging his hands over his face. It doesn't help, doesn't allow him to feel better. It kind of hurts with his nails scraping him.

The meeting of the King's counsel was tomorrow morning. Arthur had the half-arsed notion to calling this _without_ Merlin's opinion on the matter. The lords were likely hoping Arthur was calling it to announce a marriage proposal with a neighboring, allied kingdom—not that Arthur's whelp of a manservant was a great _sorcerer_ and needed the proper title.

"Everyone will just assume I _enchanted_ you into loving me, anyway," he adds, cynically. Arthur hums in response, peering away.

"Come to think of it, that suspicion has crossed my mind… "

When he catches Merlin glaring, Arthur's familiar, amused smirk fades into a deadpan look. "Merlin, for _gods' sake_, I don't believe that," he says. Arthur reaches for Merlin's hand, interlocking their fingers and tugging him in. But when Merlin lets out a sharp exhale, eyes bleary with thought, Arthur softens his clasp.

"What is it?" he asks, gazing up.

"Make the announcement an execution instead."

Arthur puffs up, eyes rounding. Losing his grip on Merlin.

"Are you _out_ of your—?" he yells, interrupted by the sensation of Merlin parting his naked legs, dropping into a kneeling position over Arthur.

"Listen to me, Arthur, " Merlin insists, now face-to-face with him. One of Merlin's hands touches over Arthur's collarbone, feeling the tension and onset of genuine fear strung up inside him "It needs to be more than just your counsel when this happens," he explains. "Open the doors to as many people as you can to. I'll confess to my crimes of using sorcery as your manservant and then ___swear_my allegiance to you, if I'm pardoned."

"I'm not ___executing_you," Arthur tells him, expression furious. He remains so even as warm, spindly fingers fondly trace a sliver of a pearly scar.

Merlin nods, eyes on his collarbone.

"I know. So you'll pardon me and _demand_ that my magic be bound to Camelot and to you as the king. To only be used in your name." He watches the recognition build, flushing out Arthur's enmity. "It'll be the next step. The first person with magic who is accepted at your side."

_A charade_, he doesn't say.

___We'll be lying, but for the good it would do__._

Arthur's nostrils flare, lips thinning, as he tries to process the information.

"You think doing this will ease their minds?"

"I think in doing this I can prove for certain all the ___good_magic does. That it isn't to be feared and not anyone who has it."

"Show that your magic protects the kingdom," Arthur says, figuring it in. Merlin grins at him, his resolve strengthening. "And then, I appoint you Court Sorcerer after that trust has been laid out for all to see."

The warlock leans in, pressing a spirited, hard kiss to Arthur's face.

"I don't know why I ever thought you were a thick-headed dolt," he says, conversationally. "You're a lot smarter than you look."

The '___ah-ha_' impressed look from Arthur reminds him of their early years-insulting banter, rough and playful shoving, longing glances when the other wasn't paying attention. But it may have just been Merlin.

They tussled back onto the furs when Arthur throws an arm around Merlin's neck, squirming them down together. It's sensually warm while buried under Arthur, feeling the human-sized pressure on top of Merlin. The soft, white fabric of Arthur's tunic rucks up and Merlin pulls it off, curling his arms to an embrace and breathing Arthur's musk in.

"_I____ don't want to lose you_," murmurs forlornly into black tufts of hair. Arthur's own hands cradled and open to Merlin's cheeks.

"I am with you," Merlin reassures, mouthing to Arthur's throat. "But I need you to believe in me. You need to believe in the world we will create."

Ithe words spasms under Merlin's chapped lips, rumbles out the words.

"_I ____am with you_."

Something flutters in Merlin's chest, high and marvelously tender.

**.**


	18. Castles Crumbling

_Title: Castles Crumbling  
_

_Content/Warnings: Romantic Friendship, Modern Era, Angst Schmoop, Prophetic Visions, Reincarnation__  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #18 "morning lazy sex"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

When Arthur rose from an enchanted sleep, nearly two thousand years older, with his memories intact and his wounds healed, coughing up lake water—he believed the worst of it was behind him and Merlin.

The very knowledge Merlin had been _waiting_ for him, all this time, not a grey hair to be seen and capable of youthful, dimpled smiles…

It was incredible circumstances.

Arthur understands this is magic. Allowing Merlin an eternal soul and appearance. It's the earth's magic _inside_ Merlin flourishing and heady and he isn't afraid of it. Not anymore.

But sometimes he is afraid _for_ Merlin.

That unbridled power. How much Merlin needs to be in _control_.

Even more unnerving, how the modern age hardly believes it existed. Arthur tries his best to digest it, surrounded by dust and books, having sunk into one of the threadbare chaises in Merlin's secreted library.

"How could they not know about sorcery?" he asks, feeling hollow.

_Witch Hunts: A Graphic History of the Burning Times_ lands thumping at Arthur's socked feet. A grotesque caricature of a woman on its cover. Her face bubbling and melting off its bones, shaded in yellows and red.

"It doesn't matter," Merlin whispers, teeth displaying, his face more gaunt and bitter than Arthur thinks he recognizes.

**.**

**.**

They're not sure what caused it.

Arthur doesn't want to blame himself, blame his return on the flood of emotional impact to Merlin's well-adjusted life in… the _United_ Kingdom.

But it's magic. It's always magic that gives them solace and discord.

Merlin's there with him, and then he isn't.

He's crumpling sideways to the ground, the dinner utensils clattering loudly. Merlin's eyes rolling and jerking to the back of his skull—and Arthur has never been more terrified for someone in his—_this_ life now.

**.**

**.**

The first seizure, unexpected and volatile, contributes a vision of Arthur's motorcycle shredding to pieces during a massive highway wreckage.

When the rest of the convulsions pass, Arthur watches him go unresponsive, unable to help as Merlin's head lolls backwards on Arthur's shoulder. He gently rubs Merlin's knuckles with his thumb, grasping his hand tightly, crouched and praying for him to recover.

**.**

**.**

Arthur's prayers thankfully do not go unanswered.

He discovers Merlin waking slowly in their bed, stretching out muscles, wrapping an arm reverently to both of Arthur's clasping his middle.

"G'morning," Arthur murmurs, planting little kisses to the dampened, hair-prickled nape of Merlin's neck in front of him. He smiles at the tired whine.

"_A'thurr, nnh_."

"It astounds me how useless you can be, Merlin."

A leg hooks through Arthur's, kicking slightly.

Merlin turns, yawning softly into a pillow, warm hand on Arthur's. "That's my line," he replies.

Arthur doesn't wish to shatter the moment, to ask what Merlin remembers, when he know _he has to_ eventually.

He forgoes the decision awhile, hearing Merlin squeak when Arthur pins Merlin's wrists, pushing their weight level to the mattress. He noses Merlin's temple, down over one of his ears, and flattens his tongue against a vein. Arthur sucks rough, wet kisses on his neck, mindful of the warlock's breathing, of his erection stirring to Arthur's thigh.

Merlin's flesh pinches so nicely, darkened purple with blood.

The man underneath him arches and groins for something quick and filthy, like most of their early morning tumbles. But no avail, as Arthur lays with him, working their bare cocks in one hand, holding Merlin's head close enough to smush their nose and taste guttural kisses.

Before anything can mask it, food or mouthwash or even Arthur, he can taste the sharp, atmospheric current; something not tangible to him—but something that _pulses_ alive and halcyon between Merlin's jaws.

**.**

**.**

"You're staying and helping me organize the cabinets," Merlin tells him on the couch. The kind of robotic voice indicating no argument.

Arthur doesn't listen; he never listens to Merlin. The telly's on. He's irritated that Merlin thinks he can lord over his decisions, and begins a heated argument before he notices the other man burst into tears.

They only half-listen to the filming broadcast of a chaotic vehicle pile-up.

**.**

**.**

In a couple days, and the fourth seizure, Merlin fills their cramped kitchenette with the scent of brewed groundsel and mugwort.

He doesn't tell Arthur it is natural herbs used for anticonvulsants, but it's obvious.

Arthur's not certain he can stomach another violent fit. Not worrying in silence about _what if now_ and _or now_ when they're in public. Not holding onto Merlin vulnerable body and swallowing the thick clog of dread.

Merlin trembles and sweats so much. As if he had been lying on coals, baking in the flames. When Arthur touches him, flinches, sore.

No living human being can manage to suffer this temperature spike.

Lucky for them, Merlin barely qualifies as human now.

**.**

**.**

It's routine. Merlin's smelly herbs. Arthur's worrying.

**.**

**.**

"M'not a bloody prophet," he mutters, stabbing at the toast on his plate.

Frowning grimly, Arthur unfolds the newspaper and holds it out. He pulls off his reading glasses, saying nothing at Merlin's look of revolted awe.

**.**

**.**

The herbs ease Merlin's condition, despite their pungent stench.

**.**

**.**

"I want to take you flying."

Arthur has never been on a plane before, and was disinclined on venturing into practical application. _Horses_ and carts were means of transportation as far as Arthur knew, not gigantic flying machines.

Okay, he wasn't entirely against modern-age transport.

Merlin _had_ bought Arthur his red, black and gold motorcycle, relieved that it wasn't quite as complicated to maneuver as Merlin ridiculed him about.

Not only that, Merlin could have a fit _on_ the damned plane—

"We'll go see Camelot, together," Merlin says quietly next to him, features solemn when Arthur's head rises, and he stares openly.

"… Arthur, would you like that?"

"I don't know, Merlin," he answers, honestly. But Arthur's heart soars.

**.**

**.**

The single plane ticket remains fisted in his hands.

**.**

**.**

Arthur's kingdom is trampled, dead grass and mud and silence.

But Merlin's smile dimples, and there's not a grey hair to be seen, and Arthur kisses him right where the throne room used to be.

Hoping the ghosts of their pasts felt the echo of the same love he did.

**.**


	19. A Little Taste

_Title: A Little Taste  
_

_Content/Warnings: Friendship, Canon Era, Aphrodisiacs, Drugged Sex, Voyeurism _

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #19 "outdoors, woods, parks, gardens"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Knights didn't usually visit and converse with servants.

Then again, servants were expected to be dutiful and obedient, not warlocks poring over ancient texts and cracking humorous jokes about Sir Dinadan's bumble with the pole-axe during the mid-day training.

_Merlin_ was the exception to a lot of broken, important rules and the kingdom's presumptions, Lancelot thought fondly to himself.

But one of the bravest—if not _the bravest_ man he had ever known in his life.

Gaius's workshop table overflowed with yellowed scrapes of parchment, glass jars and vials filled with concoctions and elixirs knotted with rawhide string. Lancelot knew he never truly appreciated how much went into the studies of being a physician, but Merlin took to it easily, winding about, mixing tinctures and cataloging different, lifesaving plants.

Lancelot flipped idly through one of the textbooks, fingers smoothing over brittle pages as Merlin hummed a nonsense tune, crushing a darkish orange paste in his mortar in hurried, rotating motions.

He gestured to an open page, tapping a fingertip and catching Merlin's attention.

"This looks unpleasant," Lancelot said, glumly staring at a drawing of stemmed berries—covered in black, _thick_ thorns.

Merlin leaped from his seat on the nearby bench, placing down the items in his hands.

"Hmm, I'd say so—_oh_," he muttered in realization, taking the book from Lancelot and grinning. "I've been looking for this, thanks." _What_ was Merlin looking so pleased about? Each little globe of darkly inked fruit had been depicted with an appalling amount of the thorns.

"What is it?" he asked, curious by Merlin's look. "A poisonous berry?"

"I wouldn't call it _poisonous_. More… unpredictable. It's been used by the Druids for fertility rituals or by people of the lower town to, uhm," Merlin coughed, grinning wider, ears suspiciously pink. "_Enhance_ their pleasures."

Lancelot blinked, keeping his expression composed, but feeling a flicker of obvious, needling heat in his belly.

"Gaius told me about a man who ate more than a handful and thought he saw floating balls of flames above the girl's head." Merlin then added quickly, rushed as an afterthought, "And he went catatonic for several candlemarks." Lancelot twitched, but his face nearly perfected a glum neutrality.

Merlin knew it was only a mask, assuring him, posture relaxed, "But loads of people have eaten them in moderation and haven't hallucinated until the point of sudden deathly fainting. They can't be _that_ dangerous."

"Consuming them increases the desire to have… relations?"

He still couldn't get off that. Lancelot fought a mortified blush and Merlin nudged his elbow playfully, leaning comfortably to Lancelot's side.

"Now say that again and say it as it is," Merlin said, impishly. "_Sexual intercourse_." He chuckled, backing off as Lancelot thumped the book to his shoulder. Leave it to Merlin to get cheeky about his embarrassment.

"_What_? It's not like you're not having it, too!"

He watched Merlin bluff his indignation, rubbing at his brown-jacketed shoulder, pouting.

"How is Arthur, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Ergh, trust me you wouldn't want Arthur in your bed, no matter how _princely_ and handsome he looks," Merlin prattled on, releasing a long, aggravated sigh between his lips. "He whines and steals all the blankets, and then mumbles in his sleep and it's very annoying—"

"—Merlin," Lancelot cut him off, patiently. "I meant how have you and Arthur been since… ?"

He didn't need to disclose anything further. A silent beat passed.

Merlin's arms began to fold. He jerkily scratched at one of his wrists, frowning.

"… Since Morgana unleashed hell on earth and we all managed to walk away unscathed from it?"

Lancelot wasn't so keen to relive the subject either. So he understood why Merlin had glanced right away, sounding low and hoarse.

But it was simply _miraculous_.

One moment, Lancelot had walked into the veil of screams and eclipse, willing to sacrifice himself for Arthur and for Camelot's safety—and the next he was stumbling miles away, inside the Darkling Woods, numbly accepting the warm, fierce hug from a red-eyed Merlin.

He had no memory of how this had occurred, how Lancelot escaped the clutches of death, but the knight had been met with everyone's relief.

It had been a moon's full turn since the Dorocha had been defeated.

But sometimes, Lancelot still felt the chilling brush of that dark rift.

"Arthur's fine. We're fine," Merlin said, honestly agleam in his eyes when he smiled a little at his friend. "He knows I'm not going anywhere—but enough about me, what about _you_ and Gwen's reunion?"

"I… "

"Didn't Arthur give you permission to 'woo' her?" Merlin asked suggestively, rocking up on his toes. Lancelot sighed.

"The only permission I need is Guinevere's; and yes, Arthur has given us his blessing in pursuing fidelity. My conscious worries me no more."

Merlin beamed, much to his apprehensive cheer.

"I'm happy for you both," he said. Lancelot nodded, smiling back, running his fingertips back over the yellowed text in a dreamy pattern.

"She's lovely, Merlin. Guinevere's wise, and brave, and true-hearted—"

Merlin poked his tongue out his mouth, exaggerating a disgusted face.

"You are ___besotted_, you are," the warlock teased, voice growing louder, taking another smart rap from the textbook gripped in Lancelot's hands.

**.**

**.**

The discussion about the aphrodisiac fruit was eventually forgotten.

Camelot needed her knights and needed her knights sharp and ready.

Lancelot dressed fast in his chambers, leaving off the mail and his cape. He kissed Gwen's sleepy lips, cherishing her ambrosial, warm scent.

"Where is Prince Arthur?" Sir Leon questioned, meeting him in the corridor. "A serving maid believes you to be the last to speak with him."

He blinked, feigning confusion.

"Arthur mentioned a hunt. He should return before evening-fall."

"That might not be wise." Leon's eyebrows furrowed. He explained to Lancelot the rumors of bandits prowling the borders of Camelot's forest. One of the patrol had been severely injured during a run-in.

"I'll have you and Elyan—"

"Perhaps it would arouse less suspicion if I went myself," Lancelot mentioned, calmly ignoring the wary frown. "With your leave, of course."

After a period of awkward, ambiguous silence, Sir Leon gazed over him some more, narrow-eyed, before tilting his head in a stiff, brisk nod.

**.**

**.**

Lancelot mentally apologized to Merlin.

Romantic, secluded picnic or not—it was better that Lancelot fetched them, rather than half of the guard accompanying him to witness their future king's preferences in skinny, low-born _manservants_.

(In truth, he never cared that Merlin's devotion and fondness for Arthur carried a deep meaning, or that Arthur seemed to carry the same. He did ___care_however that they would be mindful of their surroundings.)

This hardly appeared to be the case when Lancelot tracked them to a familiar rendezvous, petting the brown mare snuffling his neck.

Within the glade, both men sat together, face-to-face.

The unstemmed berries cradled in Merlin's broad hand, peeled of their ugly, curled thorns, their flesh glimmering in the sunlight. Both Arthur's fingers and Merlin's hand stained violet with juices, not inky-black.

"—'m not afraid," Merlin said. His chin tilting up in determination. "I want to do this, Arthur. I want to know what this feels like with you."

Arthur exhaled audibly, plucking up one of the soft berries.

"Then you have my consent." He sniffed it tentatively, evaluating the odor. "Despite your perversions," Arthur said, muttering, lips quirking.

Merlin's laugh rang out.

Neither sensed Lancelot's presence beyond the glade's clearing, amongst the undergrowth. The loyal knight prepared to start forward, ready to apologize to ___both_of them for interrupting but—

He froze in place, Lancelot's gloved hand resting on tree bark as Merlin gulped down part of the handful, chewing noisily and approvingly.

Merlin shifted his knees to Arthur's blanket, fascinated as Arthur's mouth brushed his palm. Arthur nibbled the rest of the fruit off Merlin's hand, licking bare skin, nibbling and laving his tongue across Merlin's fingers.

The surly mannerism Arthur often presented, ___gone_. Lancelot doubted it had to do with the berries, and more to do with Arthur's less known affections, but then he caught a glimpse of Merlin's pupils widening.

When they darken with lust, Merlin fumbled with Arthur's breeches, urging him closer. Lancelot, frozen to paralyzed limbs, breathing hard, witnessed Merlin nuzzle between Arthur's spreading legs, mouthing and groaning and pushing his face into that blond thatch of pubic hair.

He should leave. Avert his gaze as Arthur's face goes shiny and pink, body heaving and rutting up as Merlin growls feral between his clothed thighs, lapping messily at naked prick and touching lips over its glands.

The woods remained foggy and dampened in sun, insects buzzing along, some attracted to the perspiration to Lancelot's forehead.

He refused to clap them from his face, to risk swatting, the armour on his shoulders feeling like boulders. Lancelot's entire belly was on fire.

The berries did their work, it seemed—unhinging inhibitions with Arthur's hands grasping Merlin's backside, a oil-gleaming cockhead slipping into Arthur's loosened opening, as they cried out in a shattered unison.

Lancelot found his bottom lip swollen and hot, from worrying down, and he inhaled shakily. The undergrowth pressing in at all sides. He ___shouldn't_be here. He squinted his brown eyes, to the point of closing them.

Didn't know how much longer it went on. The noises, the slapping of wet flesh, the muffled grunts and sighs and whimpers of both drugged men.

Lancelot peered up from keeping his gaze downcast. Merlin rode hard above Arthur, into him, tossing his head back, dripping with sweat.

"_Mine_, oh_oh_," he uttered, as if strangled. Merlin reared back, leaving Arthur's muscles fluttering empty, as he spent onto Arthur—onto his chest and abdomen, running his hands over the warm, milky seed.

Lancelot couldn't swallow down a breathy, tormented noise as Arthur gave one last pull at his own cock, joining Merlin's spent with his own.

He needed… to…

They murmured to each other, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

A songbird flitting overhead.

Lancelot waited.

He waited, pulse thready and wild, and his groin squeezing in ache.

**.**


	20. Impossible Possibilities

_Title: Impossible Possibilities  
_

_Content/Warnings: A/B/O, Omega/Omega, Modern AU, Domestic Fluff, Mpreg, Pregnant Sex, Graphic Description  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #20 "Your own kink"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Omegas never get anyone pregnant.

That's like knowing Alphas are Doms by nature, or knowing to drive off when you hear about an escaped convict missing and there's an sudden, odd scratching at your car door. Everyone had some kind of generalization.

But still, here Merlin is, vomiting spectacularly into a toilet bowl, already six weeks according to the test results. He moans pitifully.

"Through your nose, good," Arthur says, rubbing Merlin's back, fingers wrinkling the soft material of his tee shirt. He coaxes him through the period where Merlin's lungs shudder for air. "Keep breathing, love."

Merlin groans out, forehead thudding on the porcelain rim, "_Hate you_."

"You're such a _girl_, Merlin."

"And you're a _fucking ass!_"

Arthur scoffs at a temper tantrum, but looks far from provoked.

"I don't think you have any room to talk," he says quietly, knowingly. But a smile perks up the corners of Arthur's mouth. His very, _very_ kissable mouth.

With the hand not pressed to Merlin's bowed spine, Arthur instinctively reaches to stroke the round firmness of his own belly. He's taken to wearing pyjama button-ups around the house, padding barefoot through the rooms and complaining about his ankles and calves and _existence_.

Smiling contagiously with him, Merlin doesn't lift his head but exposes his paled face to the other man. He thumbs Arthur's hip, feeling for how it widened and enlarged for birthing.

"Love you too," he murmurs, eyes on Arthur's stomach.

**.**

**.**

It's only been four months since the other big surprise in their lives, and Merlin can honestly say their friends and family are at a complete loss.

This shouldn't have been _possible_—two pregnancies with _two_ Omegas.

Uther had been from a long succession of Alphas, and his pride dictated that his sons had been part of that Alpha bloodline.

Before he married Ygraine, Uther impregnated his best friend's wife, giving life to Morgana. Uther had no interest in a firstborn daughter, let alone one who turned out as Beta who (according to him) "couldn't rule others or command _authority_" and deemed her from a bastard union.

After both Gorlois and Morgana's mother passed tragically in her late teens, Morgana gathered her own resources and money. She legally became her own guardian and never accepted a coin from Uther.

Uther eventually did marry. No one had known much about Ygraine Pendragon, except that she had been a rare Omega. She couldn't get pregnant. An Omega who couldn't _conceive_, not even once, bore an ugly personal _stigma_ and constant pressure from their support groups.

By chance, some twist of fate, Ygraine did give birth to Arthur.

And then left.

She vanished from the estate with little belongings. Arthur spent most of his years blaming a part of himself for his mother leaving, on top of disappointment in being a male Omega.

Merlin couldn't say he had related to Arthur's experiences.

Hunith had been Beta, and quite _content_ with that. It meant she could live her life peaceful under the radar of Alphas and without the societal expectations of the Omegas. She met a man named Balinor during a wild pub night with friends, shocked to discover he was _Omega_.

"You're just like him," Hunith would tell Merlin, kissing his brow.

As much as those words often lifted his spirits, Merlin also longed to have known his father, before the intestinal cancer had claimed his life.

When he initially met Arthur, based solely on his rough mannerisms and patronizing, overbearing attitude, Merlin had assumed he was an Alpha.

Arthur had the tendency to override a conversation in his favor, snap and bark _orders_, even at the other faculty; and as a fellow graduate afore literary professor, Merlin was past involving himself in an argument. He could throw a blunt, sharp witticism to shut Arthur up.

Even with the both of them on hormone suppressants and birth control, there had been a _noticeable_ heat around them. It came out their exchanged voices, in the too-long sideways glances, in how they occasionally brushed shoulders while passing in the corridor. Merlin couldn't figure out _why_ Arthur smelled so lovely and why Merlin's insides hummed for him.

For all his stubbornness and faults, he clearly wanted Arthur.

Arthur, getting his head out of his arse, happened to be a sweet, caring person. Especially while in bed. Merlin never cared he was an Omega like him.

He hadn't been the only one who mistaken an identity. Arthur thought Merlin as Beta, simply because of the guile to challenge him.

Arthur's tender, stretched hole was always damp for Merlin, warm and musky, and he loved burying his face in, lapping up his slick, fucking Arthur open with his tongue before fucking into him. Reveling in the clench of Arthur's muscles and fighting the urge to come too quickly.

Omega couples worked, but it seemed more temporary.

He knew ones who lasted: Mithian and Elena, as well as the headmaster Caerleon and his wife Annis, were happily devoted as Omegas—they were also open relationships. Meaning they happily let Alphas into their beds.

"I feel _so_ naughty sometimes, but," Elena would sigh aloud, nudging against Merlin on the outdoor bench where they ate lunch together. It helped their friendship being in the same teaching programs and being employed in the same region. "I swear… being properly knotted feels like a proper _fuck_. Mithy understands. She's told me about Leon."

It wasn't as if Merlin _didn't_ understand.

During the less public conversations, many others like Elena giggled and spoke of nothing getting better than being pumped so full of come, aching and sore around an Alpha's knot, being owned and bred.

It wasn't anything Merlin hadn't experienced before. He had chosen to get fucked by Betas and Alphas, pre- and graduate years. Had once taken a knot so far past his rim, it felt like Merlin would burst from the pleasure and the pain. The orgasms had wrecked him, every nerve-fiber set ablaze.

Merlin's channel would get filled with so much hot come to the point of feeling swollen in his own body, writhing and feeling _amazing_ with tears building in his eyes. While still high on endorphins, that knot still locked and pulsing inside him, he could endure the dirty talk—about how tight it felt, how full Merlin was, how he was this Alpha's _bitch_.

He _loathed_ that. The debauching and humiliating comments.

The sex was fantastic, but not something Merlin required in his life. He didn't need an Alpha to _own_ him, or be told he was an _unmated_ Omega just because using glass dildos were a preference or a penis without a knot.

Merlin wasn't about to be a vessel for someone else's pleasures. A broodmare for an Alpha or any other person on that matter. He had thoughts, opinion, dreams and fears. Merlin was a human being. He didn't want to _belong_ to someone based on his Omega status.

Maybe it was because Arthur felt the same, but it was easier with him.

He wouldn't mind belonging to Arthur and Arthur belonging to him.

**.**

**.**

Once they moved in together, Merlin stopped taking birth control altogether.

He rode his heats with Arthur, fortunate enough that living under the same room for so long _synced up_ their cycles. Merlin felt the crackle under his skin, right before Arthur would come through the front door, eyes dark and slitting intense blue, fumbling out of his old tweed jacket before fumbling out of the rest of his clothes.

"Should have expected this," Arthur told him _irritably_ during the first prenatal visit. Merlin watched as he ran a palm over the faint swell.

"No one else did," Merlin countered, ducking a smack on the back of his head. He got up from his chair and placed a doting kiss on Arthur's bump.

**.**

**.**

There's no point anymore for the suppressors or birth control.

Arthur's heats, surprisingly and yet unsurprising considering, were virtually nonexistent during the first several months of his pregnancy.

But Merlin feels his own like an _awful_ crushing wave, consuming him.

He cries and begs for Arthur, begs to be filled, trembling and straining his reddened, stiff cock to the mattress as Merlin humps against it, wet and leaking everywhere. He cries out more softly as Arthur touches him.

"I've got you," Arthur shushes him, replacing Merlin's fingers, twisting his own fingers in until Merlin's hole darkens pink and shiny with the lubricating fluid.

He lets Merlin suck his fingers greedily, letting Merlin have whatever he needed, before Arthur's cock breaches him, slamming Merlin's face into their pillows with hard, brutal thrusts, chasing the emptiness _away_.

It's the sensation of Arthur's huge, naked belly against him, carrying their baby, and his cock throbbing deep inside Merlin, right where he recently impregnated Merlin with their second child, that brings him off.

"_Beautiful_," Arthur whispers, holding him close, pulling at Merlin's cock until he can't milk anything more from it. "You're beautiful like this."

The heat tampers off, Merlin's skin cooling down.

He reaches back, one-armed. Merlin's fingers comb through blond hairs sticking with perspiration, eliciting a drowsy response.

There's nothing else in this world Merlin needs more than him.

**.**

**.**

On the spring term, Merlin's workplace is overrun by unfamiliar faces.

He doesn't have paternity leave until his third trimester, and Merlin sort of wishes he did now. He gets nervous by the way the new Alphas sniff him out, being ridiculously flirty and bold and knowing he's fertile.

"Are you… alright, Merl?" Elena asks, raising an eyebrow.

Merlin glares at the two men attempting to catch his eye and making lewd hand-mouth gestures. He knows she can't see them at her angle, and if Elena did, Merlin was sure they would be fleeing in terror.

"Brilliant," he mutters, suffering another plain carrot in his mouth.

Perhaps he should have mentioned it. One stupid Alpha corners him in the bathroom, managing to knock Merlin against the wall and pushing his cold, impatient hands roughly down the seat of Merlin's pants.

"Need a good knot in that _ripe_ cunt, don't ya," he breathes in Merlin's ear, nauseatingly close, attempting to spread his cheeks apart.

Lucky enough to find the right opening, Merlin throws a right hook into the Alpha's eye. The man tumbles backwards, hitting his head on the edge of the sink and blacking out. It's the least he can do before suing the prick.

Arthur's beyond words _furious_, demanding an explanation for the cryptic mobile call, for Merlin shaking and pinch-faced, why they're in a police station for questioning—but especially furious after learning what happened. It's only until Arthur knows for a fact that the man's _losing_ his testimony and Merlin quits the sodding university that he's satisfied.

**.**

**.**

Reading the books and online articles does little to answer some concerns.

Lancelot and Gwen are helpful in enthusiasm, but not the subject itself. They both lived as childless Betas (presently childless).

Morgana adores her little brother, despite his relation to Uther, despite their bizarre shows of affection including exploitation and blackmail and Merlin wasn't going to involve himself. Because he was an only child and that was a good enough excuse. However, she had no medical history and can't give them advice.

They end up at Gwaine's flat, tuning out the afternoon's footie game.

"You just missed Percy. He says you lot need to stop by again." He fake-pouts in Merlin's direction. "I can't believe you _forgot_. I just had the baby during the summer."

"It's been hectic," Merlin explains. "Sorry, Gwaine." Arthur rolls his eyes mildly behind him, holding his belly to him. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd think Arthur was planning to hire a palanquin soon. Merlin rests his hands on his lower back, massaging. The weight of his own three-month belly wasn't annoying yet, but Arthur looks like he swallowed Jupiter.

"Better late than never, I suppose." Gwaine shrugs, adjusting his daughter in his arm. "_So_, you want to know about popping out a baby?"

Arthur blanches at the phrasing. Merlin tries not to chuckle.

"It's that the due date is soon for Arthur. We tried looking up—"

Gwaine interrupts, "Book aren't going to tell you _shite_, mate." Merlin does chuckle when he peers down at the squealing infant, grinning. "_Shh_. Don't tell Daddy I said that, Florence."

"Then from personal experience, what can you tell us?" Arthur speaks up, expressionless.

"It's not terrible. You were born equipped for getting pregnant." Gwaine chews his lip thoughtfully. He snorts. "The pain was a bit like taking Percy's knot, only coming out."

Merlin knows he's joking—well, _maybe_ Gwaine's joking. For the record, Percy was the sweetest and most polite Alpha he had ever known. Merlin probably would have let Percy fuck him and breed him in another lifetime, but he had also seen Percy's cock before. It was a tad unnerving to imagine a knot bigger than a fist locking inside his body.

"There's nothing to worry about." He claps Merlin's shoulder.

**.**

**.**

For all of Arthur's easy starts, going from labor into birth is difficult and grueling.

"Fuck, _fuck_," he grits out, cursing loudly with his bare knees wide open to the hospital floor. "Merlin," he gasps out, contraction fading.

The one hand on Merlin's shoulder tightens up. He sees Arthur's other hand go to his stiff, massive belly, pressing on it. Three nurses hover nearby, checking equipment and getting fresh blankets and towels. They've let Arthur get comfortable where he is, occasionally probing him with green latex fingers that recede tipped in glistening, bloody fluid.

"Look at me, oi," Merlin says, cradling Arthur's reddened face. He plants a series of kisses down his lightly freckled nose. "You're doing so well, s'alright. Keep pushing."

It's enough incentive for him to grab both of Merlin's shoulders, mouth set in silent determination.

"That's it, Arthur."

He bears down at the next contraction, muscles tensing, head rearing back. His voice cracking as Arthur yells.

The nurses yank up the hospital gown, helping Arthur into a better crouching position, murmuring to him and to Arthur, naming off his vitals and the numbers on the monitors. Merlin's throat clenches up, heart racing in his chest, as what looks like a giant bloody knob emerges between Arthur's legs. The room spins a little.

Merlin's barely at six months, but _that _coming out of him—he wasn't ready for any of this.

The baby feels incredibly _heavy_ inside him, rustling, as if anxious as well.

Minutes, or hours, tick by. He doesn't watch their son fall into a nurse's arms, bawling and ugly and ___perfect_.

They wheel Arthur out, to his own recovery suite, and he knows he should follow. Merlin grimaces, already standing and in the corridor, ignoring a concerned Gwaine holding Merlin's triceps. He didn't notice he was panting, gripping at himself, soothing away the cramping in his belly. It feels like ___stabbing _up his womb, and that everything wants to clench and harden.

"Bugger," Gwaine mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Merlin, I need you to stay calm. I think you're having contractions."

He ___can't_.

Merlin turns big, watering eyes over to the other male Omega, head shaking fiercely.

"No, _n____o_. The baby's not ready," he says, Merlin's breathing dangerously bordering on hyperventilating. "Gwaine, I'm not ready. I can't do this—ah!" Merlin's face screws up, as he hisses in the newest stab of pain, feeling Gwaine's large hands rubbing his arms and his neck. Sweat collects on him, dampening and soaking through his clothing. Pressure floods through Merlin's stomach.

"I'm not leaving you. I'm going to be with you the whole time, understand?"

Merlin nods, gulping in air, not able to do much else when he's led into a wheelchair. It's premature. It's too ___soon_.

He remembers getting hooked to an IV, but not to the oxygen tank or being stripped and prepped on his back. Not the steroid injections for the baby's underdevelopment. Or his labor being induced, his legs pulled to the stirrups. Merlin feels like he's in and out of his surroundings, washing over colors and lights, lost between panic and serenity.

"Arthur, where," Merlin says, whimpering as pain rips through him, burning.

Gwaine's face blurs against the lamps.

"Morgana's with him, don't worry," he says, clutching on when Merlin's right hand scrambles to hold the cot's railing. "He's fine. You're ready for this. Push at the next contraction, Merlin."

It doesn't feel like pushing and releasing; it's ___pressure_. Building and building, for lifetimes, until Merlin's sure he'll tear open a fissure of the universe.

And then it _r____eleases _entirely, leaving him dizzy and exhausted, Merlin's belly deflating as the baby slides out of him with a gush of amniotic fluid.

Gwaine laughs like he's gone mad, wiggling Merlin's curled hand between his own.

"It's a girl, Merlin," he says. Gwaine leans over, smacking a loud, affectionate kiss the top of Merlin's black hair.

"It's a fucking ___beautiful _girl."

"___Girl_," Merlin repeats in a soft, tired murmur, letting the busy hospital activity around him lull Merlin into a semi-doze.

**.**

**.**

He opens his eyes to see Arthur in a loose-fitting shirt from home and one of the scrub pants.

"You should be resting," Merlin whispers, catching his attention.

Arthur straightens up in the guest chair, joy and relief and shame mingling in his expression.

"They said you should have stayed outside waiting," he says, tonelessly. "Being off your feet and not under stress."

"_Don't_," Merlin sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Please don't… start blaming yourself." He then glances back at Arthur, noticing the powder blue fabric bundle in his arms.

Merlin's lips quirk.

"Who's this…?" he asks, whispering, eagerness clear in his smile.

Arthur smiles back, getting on his feet in record time (considering the past month he was unable to).

"Why don't you say hello to him?" He shifts the bundle in Merlin's waiting arms.

A little pink, scrunched face. Dark hair capping a little, fleshy head.

"He's… utterly hideous." Merlin sniffles, blinking back tears. "I love him," he exclaims, grinning toothy at Arthur.

"Me too," Arthur says, quietly, ruffling Merlin's hair.

"Where's…?"

"She's in the NICU. On tubes for her breathing, but Alice believes her blood pressure is stable and there's no infection or trauma." Arthur sits back down in the chair, rubbing at his stomach absently, cringing a moment. "They didn't tell me you were in labor until it was over," he says. "Apparently it was one of the fastest births they're seen in a while."

"We didn't pick out names," Merlin points out.

"Rest now, Merlin. There'll be time enough for that."

"I like Freya."

"We're not naming our daughter after your dead cat," Arthur tells him with a suspicious amount of patience.

"Constantine."

"That's my grandfather's name and absolutely ___no_."

"Kyduan." Merlin rocks the bundle as the newborn squalls, a tiny, chubby fist waving. "How about Kay?"

Arthur leans his cheek on a hand, staring at them.

"___Kay_," he says, fondly. "It's perfect."

"I guess it's fair you get to name our daughter then."

"Gyneth," Arthur suggests. Merlin looks at him doubtfully. "Gwyneth?"

A snicker. "Gwen will be flattered."

"…Maybe we should think on that one," Arthur admits, turning red.

Merlin sweeps a finger across Kay's cheek, humming.

"There'll be time for that, right?"

**.**


	21. Safe And Sound

_Title: Safe And Sound  
_

_Content/Warnings: Past Character Death, Modern AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pity Sex  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #21 "shower sex"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

This isn't quite what Merlin expected.

Then again, he had a firm suspicion: nodding off drunk in the middle of a cemetery wasn't a common problem.

Merlin sucked in a long, harrowing breath through his teeth, mouth lacking saliva, and curled in from his eagle-spread position.

No doom and gloom overcast, at least. Being pelted in the face with rain while Merlin's head felt like it was splintering apart at his temples… yeh, no.

As a matter of fact, the sky appeared a lovely, immaculate blue, dotted with lemon flavoured candy-floss puffs. Merlin would know. He was staring right at it, bleary-eyed and with the seat of his jeans covered in freezing, caked mud—and most ___definitely _blanking on where the last few hours gallivanted off to.

(Maybe not about the white clouds being lemon-flavoured. They were cloud-flavoured, of course.)

He must have been tankered out of his wits, to imagine falling asleep here was a sound idea. Even if this was the quieter portion of the neighborhood. The chiseled, granite-shine steps dug harshly into his back, into those soft bits of Merlin's body. Not that there was many bits to start. He had always been mortifying thin. Even at twenty-four.

Will preferred the term '_skeletal as fuck, mate_'. But he also liked to call Merlin '_a complete tosser_' and shove him with both hands off the couch during violently loud gaming nights.

"Oi, you."

Merlin groaned with as much disdain as he could vocalize, sweeping a hand across an eyelid.

"Fuck off, prick," he mumbled, throaty.

"You can't address me like that," the stranger told him.

"Just did," Merlin said, moving his hand to shield his eyes from the horrible, soul-sucking morning light.

He heard a disgruntled release of air.

When a pair of hands snatched onto the front of Merlin's coat, digging in and aiding him up from the steps, he thrashed. "Get the _fuck_—!" Merlin stopped as he caught a familiar glimpse of yellowed, fine hair and gold-browned skin. He sagged in the man's arms, feeling their hearts pound together, strong and muffled through layers of fabric.

A tinge of lightheaded sensation close in on him. Merlin's head feeling like it was going to burst.

"… Arthur?"

The other man looked back at the granite steps leading up to a mausoleum, with the plaque over its entrance: _Ygraine Penford_.

Arthur fought back a wince, as Merlin's weight went slightly limp, trying to get them away from the fallen bouquet at their feet.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he murmured.

**.**

**.**

Hot water cleared up some of the fog settling over him.

Dark bangs dripping over his eyes, Merlin reached uncertainly for items in the shower. Uncertain because they weren't _his_.

This was Arthur's shower.

Even standing up on his own, Merlin felt unsteady, gut shrunken and empty. He had emptied his stomach a couple times now—twice during the walk to Arthur's car and once before going inside the studio. Still couldn't remember ___how _he managed to get that much alcohol in him.

But knew _why_.

And that was the part Merlin wished he didn't so much remember.

He rinsed out of his hair, carefully, slowly, letting the water hit him on his face. The block of soap pitched off the rack where Merlin's elbow smacked it. He turned and slipped forward, gripping onto the shower curtain. Merlin let out a soft groan, gut roiling, and the silhouetted figure beyond the curtain got larger and larger.

Keeping his eyes on Merlin's shoulders and up, ignoring his lack of dress, Arthur helped him to a sit on the tub's edge when the other man dry retched.

"Never thought you were much of a drinker, Emery."

Merlin hesitated before accepting the fresh towel, moping off the water and new beads of sweat off his face, wiping off his mouth.

"I'm not," he muttered, and then nodded politely in Arthur's direction. "Cheers."

Arthur's hands clenched into themselves, as if he battled an urge.

"Is this…?" He cleared his throat. "Is this about your friend? The one from the Tubes?"

Merlin balled the terrycloth, hiding his lap, tasting a bit of soured nothing on the back of his tongue.

"_Put your fucking shite away, mate," Will had yelled, pitching a crumpled towel at Merlin's skull. "It's like living with a homeless person!"_

"_We ARE homeless!" Merlin yelled back, grinning._

Arthur watched his stoic expression, running fingers through yellow-blond hair.

"I'm sorry to hear about your loss," he concluded.

Merlin shrugged, eyes downcast. There was a television broadcast about a physical brawl underground, including gunfire, right when the afternoon hour subway from London passed through. Several bystanders injured. One person fell into the tracks of the oncoming subway, after getting shot in the chest.

He had called Will's mobile, repeatedly. Merlin had called again, even after getting the coroner's report. Leaving messages to a ghost.

"S'was the wrong cemetery anyway," he announced, smacking his dry lips.

Arthur loosened up his plain, black tie from his collar.

"I was visiting my mother," he spoke up, and Merlin stared up, emotional barriers dropping.

God, he felt like a complete tit. He only knew Arthur through the firm they were at, in some of the legal file-work Merlin went over as a paralegal, but Arthur wasn't just an ideal—the notably successful lawyer or Merlin's often masturbatory fantasy. He was a damn _person_.

"Sorry you had to leave."

"I'm not," Arthur replied, shortly, meeting blue eyes with his own.

Merlin thanked God or gods, or the ___bloody _Prime Minister, that he used mouthwash before getting naked in the shower. Arthur's mouth touched his, no more than feather-light. One of Merlin's wet hands crept into Arthur's hair. He kissed him with a little more intent, before realizing Arthur was still as stone, hardly breathing.

"Sorry…" Humiliation flushed Merlin's cheeks. "I thought you were…"

"I am," Arthur corrected him, breathing hot against Merlin's jaw. He shook his head, frowning. "I can't take advantage of you in this state. I can't, Merlin."

The noises of rushing water filtered in, buffering the silence.

"Except you're not," Merlin said, leaving no trace of disbelief in his voice.

The hot water caressed down his sore back, sore from the hard mausoleum steps, as Arthur stood them up, guiding into the cramped, damp space, but refused to back away or push on. Yellowed strands of hair plastering to Arthur's forehead.

Merlin's slippery fingers held his face, tilting Arthur's chin up, and he shivered at the tentative, sweeping brush of Arthur's hands on his sides.

He pushed his cock against Arthur's thigh, grinding subtly. Merlin opened his mouth for a bruising kiss, slotting themselves and lean bodies together. Not quite the perfect match. He didn't think there was such thing as ___perfect _anyway.

Will would still be here with him, cursing, smirking—Arthur's mum, what remained of Merlin's dignity, all of it would still be here.

The lightheartedness, the quick in Merlin's breathes, he attributed with Arthur's presence—their hands raking, pelvises rolling into each other, nails burying.

This was much nicer than any fast jerk alone in Merlin's own shower.

Arthur gasped raggedly in the shell of Merlin's ear, bucking into Merlin, lips sliding down his neck. He felt Arthur practically vibrate against him, like a charge of thunder and air.

Even if this was a pity fuck. Even if Arthur pretended he didn't exist the following day, Merlin at least had this vivid, unmarred memory.

Something to occupy him while hovering in the world, lonely.

**.**


	22. Gaining Exposure

_Title: Gaining Exposure  
_

_Content/Warnings: Strangers to Lovers, Modern AU, Barebacking, Exhibitionism, Dirty Talk  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #22 "on the desk"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

It's the opportunity Arthur's been waiting for.

Sophia laughs at him, unrolling her yoga mat, as he gropes clumsily with the few buttons on his suit. The sound from her is kindhearted, gentle like fairy bells.

"You'll be ___fine_," she insists, pulling her tresses of dark blonde hair over her shoulder and tying it off into a messy bun. "Those dreadful hiring types won't know what hit them, will they?" Sophia winks encouraging over at him, adjusting the strap of her elastic top and shooing him out of the den.

Arthur tries not blush, squirming in place.

She's a dear to him. Drinks vintage wine from the cabinet and watches reruns of _How I Met Your Mother_ with him on weeknights. It was a pity they weren't compatible.

Arthur's also certain Sophia never saw the anal balm he left out, before he chucked it violently under his bed.

**.**

**.**

He squints his eyes at the glittering, towering building of the Mayfair headquarters.

By the time Arthur's buzzed in and riding the elevator, he's forgotten about the awareness of a well-lubricated plug seated deep inside him.

The receptionist batted her eyelashes at Arthur from across the empty, lavishly furnished room, pressing a dainty finger against her mouth.

He gloated to himself under the attention.

Modeling came easy. Modeling a couple pornography shoots came easy. Looking ___good _and feeling it came easy.

How much more ___difficult _could that be with a multimillion company?

"Vivian," comes a static-filled, male voice, from the receptionist's desk. "Vivian, you've been holding the call button. Is everything alright?"

"Oh!" she squeaks out, letting go of the intercom as if electrocuted. And then presses it again.

"_M_—" Vivian catches herself, as if forgetful. "Merlin?" she amends, twitting a silly giggle. "Your 10 o' clock is here."

"Thank you, Vivian."

Vivian waves cheerfully in Arthur's direction as he avoids her gaze and passes to the next room, shutting the haze-glass door behind him.

A man greets him, who Arthur is supposing is ___Merlin_.

He's not an exceptionally attractive man. Well, his height and build is decent, considering his thinness. Merlin's hands are warm and encompassing and strong. Merlin's eyes are _very _blue—_damn_. Arthur's prick twitches in his underwear as Merlin flashes him a relaxed smile. Dear ___christ_—his dimples. They're ___cute_.

Merlin gestures him to a nearby chair by the oak desk, but Arthur declines, standing firmly. Mouth cottony, tongue heavy.

He ___can _do this.

"So, Arthur, you're here for the ___special__ issue_…"

"The first issue catering to photography for homosexual men… I believe, in the history of the Mayfair company," Arthur says, blandly.

Merlin nods. "Nice to know you do your research."

He gestures again, but for the stack of papers in Arthur's hands.

As the other man flips through in complete silence, beginning to walk the office, Arthur shucks off his coat in record time. Fortunate that's he's not perspiring noticeably, though Arthur's body feels the exposure of air and ___heat _everywhere. Off come his plain dress shoes, wool socks, Arthur's trousers and the rest of his layers to the premium executive-cut suit.

It takes the belt clattering to the office's floor for Merlin to gaze back up.

The semi-amused expression on Merlin's face when Arthur first walked in doesn't falter at the slightest.

"… And your credentials?"

Arthur's shoulders widen, his posture erect. He doesn't touch his naked, hot skin, or his slowly hardening prick, but keeps his arms at his sides.

"I think you'll find everything in proper working order," he tells Merlin, lips crooking into a smirk.

It earns him a solemn, curious hum and a raised, dark eyebrow.

"I'll have you know, I'm not that easily impressed."

"Nor am I," Arthur responses without missing a beat.

Merlin opens his mouth, glancing off to the decorative, eggshell white wall and making an '_ahh_' noise. As if mocking comprehension. Or playing along.

It may be too late for that… but Arthur really hopes he's not looking like a total arse.

"Let me put it another way." He grabs onto Arthur, warm skin on him, and eases him to the visitor's chair. "I don't sample merchandise."

Okay, it's too late.

Arthur's mouth twists up. Skin reddening. He's an ___arse_.

Merlin holds up a hand quickly, stalling him when the other, naked man attempts to leave.

He offers Arthur a quicker smile.

"But let's see what you've got."

Arthur waits, heart thudding, willing away his embarrass blush as Merlin hops up on the office's desk, hands bracing, legs crossing.

"Pretend I'm the camera," he explains, but nothing else given.

_Easy_.

Arthur's lip curls up.

After a couple minutes of watching, Merlin bites down a grimace, head dramatically falling forward.

"For god's sake, you're not _fucking _the camera," he says, curtly.

Arthur pauses as if startled, removing a hand from his groin.

"This…" Merlin imitates grotesque sexual motions, bouncing enthusiastically on the desk. He then frowns.

"___This _you were doing right now? Mindless titillation for amateurs. We don't hire amateurs."

He ignores Arthur's outright glare from the opposite chair when it masks further embarrassment. Merlin's suit-pant legs uncross.

"Now what ___I'm _doing…"

Arthur's eyes tic up a size when Merlin's hands reach to undo buttons, opening up his cashmere, oxford grey jacket.

"…is showing restraint…"

The jacket placed and smoothed on the desk. Merlin's crisp, white shirt revealing pale bone and his throat. The finest dusting of black hairs trailing up Merlin's chest.

Dear ___christ _and all the saints.

Merlin sucks in a deep breath as he tilts his chin up, legs opening again. Dangling just off the oak desk's edge. Staring at Arthur through his long eyelashes. Staring right at his dusky-colored cock. He doesn't grin. He doesn't mean to show any expression, but those plump, rosy lips uplift just a smidgin.

Like Merlin's got an irresistible, hungry secret.

Spindly, pale fingers—Merlin's fingers—make hesitant sweeps between his own thighs. A bottom lip tugged under Merlin's teeth.

Arthur's remembering the jelly anal plug, clenched inside him, knocking just so to his prostate.

"You want your audience to know you're in control," Merlin says, whispery.

He doesn't know he's back on his feet, approaching Merlin until it happens. A current of gravitating energy from Arthur's navel straight to this _i____rritating _man.

Merlin keeps touching, all the while fully dressed, exhaling.

"You take control because ___they _want you, not the other way around."

He looks up somewhat incredulous, as Arthur crowds him. Merlin's lips part expectantly. Merlin's legs winding around his waist.

Arthur's hands clasp him, inclining him towards Arthur. It ___should__ h_ave been easy. Seconds later, Arthur's nose crashes onto the desk as Merlin flips them around, pinning a naked Arthur down with an eerie amount of finesse.

"Not the other way around," Merlin repeats, smugly, and then does a double-take. His fingers resting to the outside applicator of Arthur's plug, still moist with lubricant.

He stares, disbelieving, getting off Arthur as the other man turns around, panting and rubbing his aching face.

"You…"

Arthur tugs him back, mimicking Merlin's earlier move and hooking his ankles around him. He grinds up, right into Merlin's abdomen. "Want it," Arthur breathes. "Now, Merlin."

"Fuck." Merlin gapes, this time honestly. His palms spread to the oak-shined desk. "_Fuck_, okay…"

His voice faraway and murmury.

He deposes of the plug, tugging it out carefully. Arthur groans at the sensation, eyelids fluttering, pushing back into Merlin's fingers exploring the pucker, testing how stretched he is.

"Can't believe I'm doing this," he hears the low mutter.

"_Mer_lin—"

"Give me a bloody moment, will you?" Merlin snaps, with enough agitation to force a chuckle out of Arthur. "Stubborn arse. I'm doing all the work."

He must have used some of the escaping lube because Arthur feels him, bare cock spearing in, without any trouble. It's ___full _and huge and stealing the air right out of Arthur.

And it's good, so good. It's fucking amazing.

Merlin's hips catch his ass, slapping into him, as he thrusts into Arthur's body with a steadier pattern.

"Poor sweet Vivian can see this," Merlin points out, gripping on Arthur's firm buttocks. His grin wolfish. "Not everything, _f__uck_—but enough."

Arthur doesn't have it in him to argue, not when Merlin's thrusts get deeper, screwing him harder into the desk. He pulls at his own cock flopping uselessly against his belly.

"_God_, yes—uuh, this still qualify as a r-review of my skills?"

Merlin grins, dimples and all.

"Endurance."

He pulls Arthur's hand from his reddened prick, ignoring the grumpy, pleading noise.

"Discipline."

Merlin wetly kisses the inside of Arthur's wrist, their fingers laced, eyes cast on him.

"Come first, and you leave jobless and without any trousers," he murmurs, halting up the rhythm, stroking one of Arthur's legs.

"_Not fair_."

"I own this building. I think I can do as I please in it."

The impact of Merlin's even-tempered words slam into Arthur, pounding his cranium. He scrambles for a reinforced hold on Merlin, legs tightening, arching his back up. Merlin gasps above him, stuttering his thrusts. Arthur gasps with him, more softly, his lower belly feeling suddenly warm, muscles going rigid around the prick buried in him. He comes right after.

Arthur squirms, feeling impossibly heavy, and confused as Merlin slides the anal plug back in, his sore rim hugging it.

"What are you—?"

"A happy reminder," Merlin says, cheeks flushed pink, and sounding way too perky after a orgasm. He places another wet kiss on the corner of Arthur's mouth.

"Congratulations, Arthur. We"ll be finalizing your contract at the orientation."

**.**

**.**

He got fucked by the owner of Mayfair.

He got _fucked b_y his employer.

Vivian's earlier behavior seemed explainable now, stumbling verbally.

Arthur clenches on the bus ride home, trying to not look obvious about the fact there's an anal plug seating a load of Merlin's _come _inside him.

His mobile rings. He clicks it open, seeing Sophia's text.

_adorable bloke w/dimples here told him you were busy_

How in hell did Merlin…?

_sophia gave me your number :) it's called reading the address line on your resume_

Arthur looked skeptically at his mobile's face, with the next text message. Okay, that's spooky.

_This your way of propositioning me?_

Merlin's text rang back in moments.

_i think we already covered that ;) i was hoping dinner once you… freshen up_

Arthur barked out a laugh, startling a nearby woman.

_Putting it mildly. Would you fire me if I said no?_

_nope. but i fancy you a little so remove the potential variable and say yes?_

The woman stopped glaring over her cheap reading glasses, staring back at her novel and Arthur shook his head, reverently.

He was so getting Merlin back.

**.**


	23. Quite The Match

_Title: Quite The Match  
_

_Content/Warnings: Strippers & Strip Clubs, Modern AU, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Physical Abuse  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #23 "trying new position"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

What would a normal hot-blooded man do… when black patent high-heel pushed against the side of his face, turning him the object of his attention—a gorgeous, masked dancer?

The mask was a little strange, admittedly. None of the other girls… or dancers at the strip club usually bothered to hide their faces. This kind of work didn't necessitate shame. Or modesty. As far as Arthur Pendragon knew, and he ___knew _about the performance scene. Very well. But that's [another story for another time].

The lean, did he mention ___gorgeous_, dancer with a high heel on his cheek started mouthing the lyrics to the next techno-beat song. "_I know you want me_," those pale, shine-glossed lips indicated. A slip of pink tongue jutting out between those lush lips. "_I've made it obvious that I want you too_."

Arthur focused up again, on that decorative mask and the eyes veiled away from him.

The mask was black except for the red metal trimmings around it, and what they called a 'half mask'—meaning it only covered the top half of the nose and around the eyes, but not the cheekbones. He vaguely was reminded of the ballroom scene from that Jim Henson movie "_Labyrinth_"… did anyone else remember that movie…?

"Am I boring you?"

Arthur felt the high heel move away, as the dancer asked this over the pounding of the music.

He blinked. Arthur shook his head, hands twitching.

"… I'm sorry—_er_, I mean… no."

"No need." The dancer leaned over a bit, smirking—_yes_, he was male and Arthur didn't feel brokenhearted about it this at all. "I go by Robin with the patrons. My stage name."

"Of course, because of the red shirt… suppose it's very clever…" Arthur then laughed nervously.

A musing noise.

"Can't really call it a shirt, can you?" To prove his point, Robin spun around a moment, looking down at himself on the platform. Indeed. The shirt was cut off at the waist, arcing into an upside-down V almost to his prominent ribcage. The short sleeves were black and mesh. The back entirely made of red mesh.

And Arthur didn't notice it before, but a small loop of platinum flashed on Robin's belly button. _Bugger_.

Somewhere off stage, a burly name started yelling angrily in their direction. Arthur didn't recognize him as the bouncer, but Robin's mouth twisted up with dislike.

"Been spending too much time in one place. Wonder how much Hengist will deduct this time…" He glanced back at Arthur, pensively. "Are you sticking around?"

"Um…"

He lost Leon and Kara somewhere in the crowd. Probably at the bar. Arthur got the feeling Leon tagged along with them out of rubbish friendship obligation and Kara must have been _furious _that she had been invited to a surprise 'Ladies Night' and robbed of her first experience clubbing with hot women.

"You should stick around." Robin then added gleefully, and if Arthur didn't know any better he would have mistaken him for being younger than twenty, "…what's the saying…? …All good things come to those who wait…"

"I'll consider it."

"I hope so. For a prat, you're not the worst one I've ever encountered."

"_Hhm_…" A little dreamy-eyed, Arthur watched him return to the bigger platform with the rest of the dancers. His black, silky gloves a contrast to the length of his pale arms. That shimmery ass in tight, miniature shorts grinding against one of the free poles as the randy women and a handful of men crowded below and drooled.

Arthur then let the prat comment filter in, snubbed.

"—_Oi!_"

**.**

**.**

The evening was turning out to be _interesting_, in a non-generalized way.

Well, mostly it was interesting in how it turned into "_oh-jesus-where-are-the-half-naked-women_" to "_I-think-this-masked-and-pretty-bloke-was-flirting-with-me-and-I-was-flirting-back-oh_".

Speaking of, Arthur hadn't seen Robin (or whoever he actually was) on the bigger stage platform in a good hour. Maybe longer. In the gyrating sea of well-oiled and fake baked muscles, he had been swallowed up in the chaos and disappeared, even with noticeable shade of red to his costume.

Before he could rack his brain for that answer, Arthur's eyes drifted over to another dancer. He stood on a small, round platform on the far left, a hand wrapped solidly to a pole. Wide-set blue eyes. He wore a skin-tight pleather bodysuit, as dark as his hair pushed back from his forehead with a glittery, steel-colored headband. His asymmetrical maroon-colored scarf dangling around his neck also dangled out of the reaches of one or two women who called out eagerly and possibly drunk.

"That's Wiccan. Stage name, too. He's really popular during Ladies Night." Arthur glanced over at the speaker who dropped into the plushy chair next to his, elbows to the crusty tabletop. "He's got a way of pulling people in without saying much," he said, chuckling. A very tinted aviator sunglasses on his boyish face (_it was dark enough in the club, sheesh_).

"That's… I see…" Arthur said, cautiously, sipping on his glass of Jack Daniels and nasty-tasting ice.

"Kind of like a love spell? Geddit?"

Robin's smile was so ridiculously wide that Arthur had to snort aloud. Magic, oh _please_.

"I'm guessing you didn't grow up on comic books?"

"Not hardly."

And… wait, _Robin_?

Ignoring the outright shocked expression, Robin's face turned to Arthur, his elbows sliding away.

He said, tugging on his violet-colored hoodie and black jacket, "You stayed."

"Um…" _Words. Find them. _"My friends are still—"

A shrill, enraged cry from behind him. Arthur's spine froze in place. "_There you are, you bastard_!"

Oh.

Oh shit.

Kara grabbed the back of Arthur's collar and pulled hard, her teeth baring in an scowl. He flailed a moment, panicked as his air circulation was lost.

"What the _HELL _are you playing at, Pendragon?"

"Kara, fucking hell!" Arthur disengaged her hand and glared. "What are you doing?"

She glared back with equal venom. "I came with you to see _tets_, not goddamn pricks in my face everywhere! This isn't what I signed up for!"

Her eyes cut over to Robin who looked between them, giggling behind his hand at them.

"Oh, okay," Kara said, rolling her eyes. "I can see why you'd come to _prick _night, it's not a well-kept secret—but _robbing cradles _now, too? You are truly a sick fuck."

Robin's features scrunched up in displeasure.

"What the _hell_?"

Arthur felt like smacking his head on the table. Repeatedly. Even with the questionable crusties.

"For the love of… god, where is Mordred?" he asked, lowly. Mordred was closer to Kara than him, and knew exactly how placate her.

"_Left_. He was the smart one."

"… Is everyone okay here?" A cute waitress in a uniform dress and black smock approached their table, looking concerned. Kara's expression lifted.

Robin made a complete 180, smiling cheerfully at her. "Everything's good, Sefa."

She smiled back, relieved. Sefa blushed as Kara licked her lips absently. "I'll… go back to serving."

"That's a good friend Sefa. She's just been hired," Robin informed them when she left, and Kara who oogled slightly after the uniform skirt hem. "It's her third night. Whatever she lacks in service skills, she makes up in enthusiasm." And his cheer faded a little as the sounds of crashing glasses rang out and apologetic squeaking.

"Maybe the night's not a complete loss."

Kara adjusted her breasts in her low-cut top, before walking off, bending down where Sefa was to help her clean up the broken mess.

"Is she trouble?" Robin asked, eyeing after her.

"No," Arthur said. "She just like girls."

"And you? You like girls?

A flutter of pleasant heat crawled up Arthur's stomach at the sly grin.

"Not presently, no."

"Good…" Robin suddenly was leaning forward in the plushy chair, almost nose-to-nose with Arthur. His breath smelled _sweet_… like… _fruity gum_. "Are you free tonight?"

**.**

**.**

Arthur visited his Mum for his thirtieth birthday. Merlin gave him a long goodbye kiss and goes back to studying for exams.

_Merlin_, not Robin.

It felt like a lifetime ago since they agreed to move in together, and Merlin flipped off the club owner Hengist, storming out his things from his dressing room and Sefa with him. He had been afraid of what would happen to Sefa. Hengist was notorious for abusing those he deemed _weaker _than him, but no one ever came forward, or had substantial proof.

Except for Merlin's left eye.

"Doesn't hurt anymore," he had whispered, softly. The first time Arthur's fingertips had trembled around the puffy, raised skin containing a mottled white iris.

He was completely blind in it.

Merlin never left to go anywhere without sunglasses or a colored eye-contact. One eye always seeming bluer than the other.

"I should just get two golden ones, what do you think? I think it would liven things up a bit around here," Merlin would tease, with a different color scheme in mind each time Arthur got that face. That sympathetic face on him Merlin wasn't too fond of. He hated being told how _sorry_, how _awful_, how _unfair _it was from someone who didn't understand at all.

Ygraine often listened to Arthur's frustrations, ambling through the corridors of the estate.

"He knows you love him," she said, patiently. Ygraine touched the side of Arthur's face, beaming. "My son, the ex-aerialist, and his darling partner."

"The ex-stripper," Arthur said, listlessly. "Quite the match."

"Merlin's not a _stripper_, love."

Arthur nodded, taking a drink out of his champagne. "_Ex_-stripper, I've said that."

Ygraine patted his cheek sharply, disapprovingly.

"Merlin's very brave to have been through what he has," she told him, leaving him for the ornate, gilded side-table.

"I understand that." Arthur's throat seized up, as he inhaled. "I wouldn't have him any other way—what is that?" Arthur frowned as his mother handed him a wrapped gift.

"A _birthday _present, or did you forget why you were here?"

He resisted a childish pout. Grown men didn't pout. Except for Merlin—but Merlin was like a child himself, with a greedy appetite for sweets, his midnight-showing cinema tickets to The Hobbit that he dragged Arthur to, his DC and Marvel posters of beefy superheros littering the interior of their closet.

Arthur's fingers took apart the silky, white bow, and ripped open the wrapping.

"_Mother_!" he gaped down at the book in his hands, sputtering. "This—_this_—!"

She burst out laughing, clasping Arthur's dismayed face and pressing her lips to his cheek.

"Now stop that. Put it to good use."

Ygraine thumped a hand over the newly bound copy of Kama Sutra.

**.**

**.**

Merlin had the very same reaction—laughing at Arthur's face. But he wasn't laughing now, mouth slack, toes rocking, scooting over Arthur's upraised torso.

Arthur was starting to believe he was out of practice in flexibility, tendons and muscles burning.

It was a damn good thing Merlin's so light.

They found a page about '_bridging_' and Arthur volunteered as the person beneath, contorting himself backwards to the bedroom floor. His dick plunging slowly into Merlin. Merlin's continuous whines and babbles kept him from going soft, distracted by the athletic position. Though Arthur wished he could have seen Merlin's struggling to keep upright.

"Can't come, like, this," Merlin begged from above, grappling with Arthur's lightly haired thighs. "Arthur, gotta stop."

Arthur groaned out his agreement, neck craned back. Blood pounding in his skull. He wasn't even close. Not even after twenty minutes.

"Get up on the bed," he murmured. Merlin slid off, releasing Arthur's cock, gasping at the loss and emptiness.

Arthur relaxed into a sit, glad for it as the burning sensation in his muscles trailed away. He joined Merlin, straddled his knees, tangling their legs. Merlin pressed his hips up into him, opening himself back up with several fingers. "Lessgo," he mumbled, easing Arthur's cockhead in. Arthur let a small smirk tug his lips.

"Idiot," he said affectionately, rocking back into the delicious heat. Merlin leaned back, displaying himself fully. Arthur loved petting the dark patch of hair on him, how it was spread across Merlin's chest. His nipples circled by black hairs. Arthur loved feeling them pebbled against his tongue, suckling and biting gently.

And he loved when Merlin keened, letting go and tearing at the sheets. He spurted onto himself, belly and chest heaving, and Arthur let the sight consume him, moaning and coming.

He could feel aftershocks deep inside Merlin, rubbing his sides soothingly.

Smiling bleary, Merlin opened his skinny arms, motioning for him. He smiled wider when Arthur inclined towards him, kissing him, kissing his jaw and under his puffy eye.

"You miss the heels, don't you?"

Arthur whispered into the side of Merlin's sweaty, warm face, voice raspy, "You were monstrously giant in them."

Merlin enfolded an arm around him, wriggling as Arthur's hand skimmed over his belly ring. He said, deviously, "Not the only part of me that's _monstrous_."

"You're awful."

"I'm _brilliant_."

**.**


	24. What The Heart Truly Desires

_Title: What The Heart Truly Desires  
_

_Content/Warnings: Spells & Enchantments, Canon Era, Romantic Friendship, Episode Related, Pining Merlin  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #24 "shy"_

* * *

**.**

**.**

_These love potions are strange things._

Merlin groaned, thudding his forearms to the workshop table. By midday, King Olaf would battle Arthur to the death. The malevolent enchantment over Vivian and Arthur held strong.

"… Are you sure we didn't miss something?"

Gaius peered studiously though his hand-held magnifying glass, making a distracted noise.

"Oh," he said, finger pausing over his grimoire.

"_Oh_?"

Merlin's head jerked up. He rose to his feet, nearly twitching with anticipation.

"Is that '_oh_, Arthur's saved' or '_oh_, that old knee's acting up'?" Merlin asked, over Gaius's shoulder. He tilted his head down at the cramped, undecipherable passage.

The stern, pointed look from Gaius went unacknowledged.

He said, dryly, "Enchantments such as these require a magic stronger than the potion—"

"Yes, and we tried that. My magic did nothing!"

"—it _also _requires a truer love to be summoned." Gaius's finger smoothed over the text as he recited, and the more he did—the more Merlin felt his own dread grow tight like a knot inside him. "Shown in a deep, abiding gesture and consenting from both the enchanted person and… _you_, Merlin."

"Except there's one problem," Merlin said, his expression frantic. "There's no _love _to be summoned. Arthur doesn't feel that way!"

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

"Are you so sure?" he asked, eerily contemplative.

Merlin let out a rumbling, frustrated growl, wiping his hands over his face. Sliding them down to his jaw. Of _course _Gaius knew about that.

"I'm… I'm over that, Gaius. I know who his heart really desires," he admitted, unsmiling. "Gwen should be the one doing this instead of me. She's his truest love."

"Except if it doesn't work, Arthur fights in the tourney."

Merlin nodded, the knot in him tightening further.

"I'll do what I have to do to protect him," he said, grimly.

**.**

**.**

He found Arthur confined to his bedchambers, knee hitched up on the sill, glancing out the window.

"Sire?" Merlin resisted the instinct to defuse anything awkward between them with joke. "Sire, you haven't eaten anything."

He picked up the full platter of Arthur's lunch, hearing a low whine.

"How can I?" Arthur said, mournfully. A palm resting upon his sun-golden cheek. "My lady love and I are parted."

With his back turned, cleaning up the dining table, Merlin eye-shrugged at no one. Trying to sound patient.

"I'm sure it's for the best," he muttered.

Arthur slammed a fist against the marbled stone wall, face twisting up.

"You don't _understand_, Merlin. You _can't _understand what it's like to love someone you can never be with."

Mouth set into a determined line, the other man revealed nothing in his posture. Merlin continued his task, picking up Arthur's blunted sword and the tatter of belt.

"You'd be surprised," he muttered a little less loudly. "Astonished, even."

Arthur sighed dreamily, getting up from the window.

"She's the warmth of my heart's content. She's my light. My delicate flower."

Merlin allowed himself a moment to poke out his tongue in exaggerated disgust before turning back around, blinking, straight-faced.

"My other half," Arthur told him, earnestly. Something fragile inside Merlin crumbled up into ashes. "My _destiny_."

"No," Merlin said, quietly.

He strode over, frowning at Merlin. "What did you just say?"

Merlin rasped out, feeling like the air thinned in his lungs, "No, that's… it's all wrong."

"You're talking _nonsense_."

"The Lady Vivian isn't who you think."

Arthur folded his arms, beginning to glare in semi-confusion.

"Then who is she, _Mer_lin?" he asked, dangerously low. Merlin flinched back a moment .

Arthur was trapped in the enchantment, thinking Vivian was the epitome of _perfection_. He didn't know what he was doing or saying, Merlin thought. Not entirely.

"Just… a person," Merlin said warily, his eyes lowered before he gained the courage to glare _back__ i_nto Arthur's eyes. "Your _destiny _means so much more, Arthur. We're meant to build the greatest kingdom in all the lands. We're meant to build Albion _together_." At another disgruntled, unmoved look, Merlin slide his teeth over his lower lip.

Okay.

Merlin rucked up his claret tunic, exhibiting his tummy and the dark path of hair leading up to his navel. He bunched the roughly-woven fabric into his hands and pulled it over his head, just in time to witness Arthur's mouth drop open. "I guess I'll have to explain it the complicated way," he said with some finality.

"What are you think you are DOING?"

"Snapping you out of this enchantment." Merlin tugged off his boots, going for the rope holding up his trousers. "What do you think I'm doing?"

Arthur said, offended, "I am not _enchanted_!"

"You are, and I'm going to break this," he insisted, only stopping from removing the rest of his clothes as Arthur's hands grabbed his. "But it has to be with you. It has to be consensual. "

Arthur's blue eyes squinted closely as Merlin, as if he were a fascinating, albeit annoying, specimen.

"… Is this your pathetic attempt at _seducing _me?"

Merlin chuckled. "Forgot the flowers, yeh," he said, sarcastically.

Arthur's fingers clenched round his, still hovering in front of Merlin's trousers.

"Why would I _ever _take your virtue?"

"You wouldn't," Merlin replied, honestly. "There's not much of it left." He grinned at the flash of arousal in summer-blue eyes. "I'm not exactly _untouched_."

He felt that wave of foreign, weaker magic simmering, coming from Arthur. His own magic _pushed _against it, forcing it away.

One of Arthur's hands snatched Merlin's jaw, holding him there.

"Who… was it?"

There wasn't _danger _in Arthur's voice, so much as there was a blaze of unidentifiable heat.

"Does it matter?" Merlin kept on grinning, letting it soften in knowing. "She was from Ealdor. We spent the long winters together."

He remembered her, a girl with farm-browned arms and a speckled complexion. Bright curls of orange hair. He remembered huddling naked in lone candlelight, feeling her arse rub against him under wool blankets. Her breasts pressing to him, solid and fleshy warmth.

She had whimpered, lips bitten raw when Merlin sank between her legs, her little, wet cunt squeezing around him hard enough to roll his eyes back. He remembered fingers clenching her breast, even as Merlin jolted her hips up from the cot in an delirious rhythm, feeling every inch of her. He had been completely lost to it until they settled, wrapped together. His cooling seed trickling out, slicking Merlin's hand as he fingered her lazily, petting, her thighs hugging his wrist.

Arthur brought him from the memory, smashing their mouths, colliding noses painfully. Grunting, Merlin seized onto Arthur's head with both hands, pulling him in tighter. Their lips and teeth _ached_, bruising from the pressure, from trying to consume each other. Merlin was about to lick in, map out each ridge of Arthur's palate when the other man heaved a gasp.

The foreign magic seemed to hum deafeningly in Arthur, before diminishing into a background vibration.

Arthur's eyes stared right at Merlin, but didn't _see _Merlin.

"I… Vivian…?" he murmured, bemused.

"_Merlin_. It's us. It was always us." Merlin smiled, widely. He placed Arthur's hands to his bare torso. "I'm going to be with you, protecting you for as long as I live."

But Arthur didn't seem to comprehend.

His lips rounded out.

"Guinevere," he breathed out. Merlin's smile fell, his heart turning into the same, cursed knot. "I love…"

Merlin stepped away, exhaling sharply, hands trembling on his forehead.

_Gods damn everything_—he really was an idiot.

Arthur shook his head, eyes getting big with realization.

"Hells, what was I _thinking_?" he asked.

"Dunno," Merlin said, blandly. Grateful he sounded like everything was _ordinary _when Merlin just made a right fool of himself and his nauseous stomach was eating its own walls. He bent down to pick up his tunic, avoiding looking behind him at his truest—and least likely to feel as he did—_love_. "It worked, at least. You're back to yourself."

He wiped at his runny nose, ignoring the horrible sting in his eyes.

"Merlin?"

"If I say anything, you'll have me dropped in a vat of hot oil. I got it." Merlin faked a laugh, sniffling. "But now King Olaf will have to find another person to—"

He stiffened up, flinching in Arthur's immediate grasp.

"You meant everything you said?" Arthur whispered, gaze needy, "Merlin, tell me."

Merlin's eyelashes heavy with dampness.

"All of it," he whispered back. _I'm not yours_.

There it was again: Arthur's kiss. Without possessive, fierce nature, without harshness and the pain resulted of desperation. Arthur held onto him like he was cherished, like Merlin _deserved _this. Deserved happiness. A hiccuping sob escaped Merlin's lips, another few tears slipping down his cheeks.

"Don't, Merlin," Arthur said, murmury. He gently pushed them away, caressing over Merlin's reddened face.

This isn't how Merlin wanted him. Not out of pity.

But Merlin still licked past the rim of Arthur's pliant lips, feeling Arthur's hands undo the rope to his trousers, lost to it—lost to where he ended up on Arthur's bed, thrusting into the hot seal of Arthur's mouth. Merlin gripped Arthur's hair, legs cradling the sides of Arthur's head. "_Ar_thur," he moaned out, saliva-wet cock thudding onto his abdomen.

He tasted Arthur's mouth, tasted his own cock on Arthur's tongue. Merlin shied away, turning his head and gasping. Arthur nosed down his throat.

"Mm," he grunted, as if pleased.

The nexus of Merlin's sorcery rose up, clashing against the weakened foreign magic. He pushed once, finding it brittle.

"_Út_," Merlin commanded, under his breath. Irises burning gold.

Relief flushed through him as Arthur went limp against him, dozing in slumber.

Merlin went limp into the bed with him, gripping on, fingering Arthur's hair. He needed—some time to think.

_Love was a strange thing_.

**.**


	25. Thinking Of You

_Title: Thinking Of You  
_

_Content/Warnings: Friends to Lovers, Modern AU, Nipple Play, Fingerfucking, Humor  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #25 "with toys"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

While searching out an anniversary gift, he remembered an old photo of Merlin.

His curls of black hair trimmed in an unflattering bowl-cut. Merlin grinned and stuck his entire tongue out at the camera.

On his tongue had been a ladybug. _Alive_.

Arthur discovered the photo by chance while visiting Merlin's home, stirred by a glimpse of their past. The odor of sweet, green grass. Merlin's pale skin burned a mottled pink by the sun while Arthur's freckled to a dark golden. Being winded from chasing each other around in the yards and laughing until it hurt.

He vividly remembered that, as a child, Merlin had a reckless and carefree behavior about him. He often spoke what was on his mind.

Merlin had believed the stars could talk, and no one yet mastered their language. That the fairies in the glens were covered in horns and fanged and blue. During the mild summers, Arthur and his new friends would catch sight of Merlin alone scaling up the gigantic ravine outside of their little, run-of-the-mill town.

He picked fights with bullies, often prompting Arthur to step in before the damage escalated—Merlin thrashing in the protective grasp of Arthur's arms, lifted right off his feet, snarling and managing a few well-aimed kicks at his opponent. And also at Arthur's shins for good measure.

Smiling to himself, Arthur half-considered pocketing the photo, but imagined Balinor might have strung him up. Merlin's father had not been pleased by his son's choices in dates.

But reluctantly and good-heartedly accepted the Pendragon boy into his family.

Arthur's troubling search ended.

A crystal ladybug dangled against Merlin's bellybutton, connected by twin braids of metal. Arthur's eyes traveled greedy up Merlin's rising chest, to T-shape of the silvery clamps.

Merlin's nipples were dark with colour, kiss-bruised and rigid to the touch. Arthur knew without running his fingers over them, without feeling how hot and tender-soft they were.

"It's gorgeous," Merlin breathed out, tucking his chin in to admire the nipple toy for himself. He traced over the rubbery pad holding on to one of his nipples, hissing softly.

Arthur smirked. The second present for Merlin was now snugly across his bum—a men's silky, boy-cut pair of panties. The sky blue colour matched Merlin's eyes, hemmed with magenta.

"_You're_ gorgeous," he murmured, correcting him.

Arthur's fingers yanked on the silvery ornament, creating intense, straining pressure on Merlin's abused nipples, the braided metal going taut. It elicited a loud groan and an instinctive cant of Merlin's hips. He couldn't begin to understand how that felt, watching the flash of pleasure-pain on Merlin's face.

"You should see yourself," Arthur said, rubbing his hand over the front bulge of Merlin's delicate panties. Pushing to the moistened, too-thin fabric and sensing a pulse of Merlin's cock hidden from him. "Would you let me fuck you like this, Merlin? Your fat prick hanging out of your underwear while you get off on my brand new toy for you?"

"Oh god," Merlin whined out, clutching for the nearest object—which happened to be the top of Arthur's head.

Arthur eased him on the couch with him, rolling Merlin down onto his knees. He tugged the blue panties, revealing only Merlin's arse and taint. Arthur massaged his forefinger over Merlin's warm, eager hole, pressing in the tip. He felt those muscles resist before Merlin exhaled shakily, and then Arthur's dry finger pressed again, swallowed up to the last knuckle.

The stimulation of the heavy weight of the clamps had Merlin's head tossing left and right.

"Too much, Arthur," he panted, forehead digging to a cushion. "Arthur_arthur_, I can't."

He stroked over Merlin's long, thickened cock, sliding oozing fluid over it.

Merlin was fucking _insatiable_.

Arthur rotated his finger deep inside him, letting Merlin buck repeatedly upwards into his hand. "Come just like this, Merlin. I want to see it," he encouraged, hearing Merlin cry out wordlessly in exasperation. "You can do it. Don't be stupid, I know you can. I've seen you get off just from watching Dirty Dancing."

"God, you're such an _ARSE_."

"Yours is quite lovely—now, back to the point," Arthur said conversationally, opening his mouth over Merlin's lower back and sucking a hard, noisy kiss. "Do as I say."

He worked in time to Merlin's sudden jerky movements, pumping his cock in his jeans as Merlin pumped his hips. Arthur reached his orgasm, quick and satisfyingly dirty, right before Merlin's body convulsed, squeezing Arthur's finger tightly, as the other man succumbed in a low, wrecked howl.

Arthur wiped the semen from his hand onto denim material, rolling Merlin back over to face him. Hard to with all those gangly limbs.

"What are you doing…?" Merlin asked, panty-blue eyes lidding.

"Rewarding you," Arthur said, simply. He lowered himself, removing the metal clamps and kissing along the span of Merlin's chest. Arthur's tongue laved his nipples, soothing the inflamed flesh. Merlin whined, more high-pitched, as Arthur's hand reached up to lightly tweak the opposite nipple.

"Fuck you, prick," he groaned out, kneeing Arthur's side.

"Perhaps another time."

"Give me an hour."

Arthur snickered into Merlin's collarbone, peeking up to see Merlin scrunch his face in mock-nastiness and poke his tongue out between his lips.

He was completely worth the trouble.

**.**


	26. Forgiveness

_Title: Forgiveness  
_

_Content/Warnings: Coffeeshop AU, Modern AU, Serial Killers, Humor, Violence  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #26 "boring sex"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Merlin's done pretending.

He likes Arthur. He does. It's not anything personal.

The soft-sharp bristles of Arthur's facial hair drag against Merlin's fingertips. He really was _very_ handsome for a complete prat. Merlin eyes him, guardedly, his arms propped up and cradling to the sides of Arthur's head. He lies nude and quiet between two muscular legs. He feels Arthur's diaphragm rise below him, ticking out an invisible, serene measure.

Merlin settles his chin into the blond nest of hair, indulging a moment in observing Arthur's eyelids twitch but he doesn't wake.

Somehow it's better this way.

Arthur murmurs in his sleep, unawares of Merlin nuzzling and pressing a messy kiss or two to his sternum. He takes up his _Avalon_ cigarette lighter and screws off its top.

It's _never_ personal.

**.**

**.**

In the winter of '98, Merlin had strangled a mother.

She begged for her life, whimpering, teary-eyed and shameless. Gasping out the names of her children, to stop, they need me _please pleaseImbeggingyou_, when Merlin tightened the belt around her frail, purpling neck. It had been so easy to lure her, playing the innocent hitchhiker. He was fourteen years old and had already killed two others before her.

Guns were impersonal, but simpler means to an end. That's what Merlin wanted to see—an _end_. Bloody or screaming in an empty room, with glaring eyes or prayers on their lips.

The _thrill_ of spiking adrenaline coursed through his veins. It dried the insides of his mouth.

Merlin burned her corpse until her skin flayed a crusty black, disposing what remained in one of the Lanchester canals.

**.**

**.**

The air today smells like cinnamon and a hint of disinfectant.

It helps Merlin disengage from his own whirring mind, concentrating instead on the documents and spreadsheets pulled up in front of him.

"May I plug in here?"

"Sure, mate," he says, not looking up from his humming laptop. "Don't let me stop you."

A curt laugh.

"I assumed it would only be polite," comes a deep voice. The polyester, swivel chair across from Merlin's table groans under new weight. "I'm Arthur, by the way."

Merlin chances a look up, despite his mental urge to neglect all other intelligent life-forms. Regardless or whether or not they approached him. Terribly handsome bloke with a long, sculpted nose. Chapped pink lips drawn up in a ever-faint smirk. Maybe he was in early thirties. Would make a decent shag. Yes, Merlin should _definitely_ ignore him.

He peers back at Merlin expectantly, light-colored eyebrows climbing up.

Merlin then notices his outstretched hand. Merlin's hand jerks up in automatic thought, knocking over his cup of espresso. "Fuck," he yells inside the busy coffee shop, startling a passing man sporting aquamarine dreadlocks. Merlin slams his laptop lid forcefully, rescuing it in his arms as the dark-liquid pool grows on the table.

Arthur stuffs napkins into his hand, thanking the manager for a fresh roll of paper towel to use.

"No harm done?" he asks, wiping and letting the hot espresso soak in, seeing a frowning Merlin nod. The tips of his ears reddened.

"You sure?"

"Fine," Merlin grumbles, feeling the wet patch on his right leg burning like mad. Fucking hand-eye coordination. This would only happen when he was nervous and talking to a shaggable bloke with an overly pleasant disposition and flawless, movie-star teeth, wouldn't it? _Of course_ it would. So fuck the universe. Gravity, too.

Arthur glances towards Merlin's tremoring leg, but doesn't invade his space.

"You're hurt."

"M'fine, doesn't hurt," he says, stiffly.

"You're not a very good liar."

"Better than _you_," Merlin challenges, just because he can, just because it brings a grin to Arthur's face. There's something enigmatic to it—_something _Merlin's familiar with.

Arthur's hand falls to the back of Merlin's chair, and he imagines how that large hand would feel grasping roughly around Merlin's neck, or slippery around his prick.

"Never did tell me your name," he says, determinedly.

Merlin blinks at him, half-smiling.

"I don't think you deserve it."

Arthur's _grin_—it's going to get him into loads of trouble one day.

"I'll be seeing you again," Arthur promises in a whisper, lips lowered against Merlin's reddened ear, and backing away.

Merlin swallows down a heavy, moaning breath, eyes following Arthur's back.

He can't wait.

**.**

**.**

After another week, meeting up at the same, floral-print table, he tells Arthur who he is. Merlin: the social worker who adores YouTube kittens and a good cup of caffeine.

"What did you specialize in?" Arthur licks away the spot of foam from his upper lip, arranging his face thoughtfully.

Merlin gives a one-armed shrug, fingers tapping absently.

"Palliative and hospice social work," he explains, sensing Arthur's polite bewilderment. "I treat people who are diagnosed with terminal illness. Help them with their emotional needs."

Arthur's mouth purses.

He asks, cautiously, "People who are going to die?"

"Dying's easy." Merlin says, his expression firm, "Living is the hardest thing to do."

Arthur snorts in his direction, but not unkindly.

"I didn't take you for a _philosopher_, Merlin," he utters, biting into his strudel-topped muffin.

"Well, I didn't take _you_ generally for someone intelligent, come to think of it," Merlin slings back, monotonous. But he feels a grin on his lips as Arthur nudges him hard under the table.

**.**

**.**

The teasing becomes a comforting mechanism.

He feels himself get bolder with Arthur, suggestively hinting other locations, but Arthur doesn't take the bait. He's far more restrained about his personal life than Merlin.

But eventually, Merlin coerces him back to his place, offering an meal and to let Arthur go through his Blu-ray collection of classic Charlie Chaplin. After several beers, they're loose enough to warm up a seat against the pillows next to each other, squeezing their hips and knees together. Partway through _City Lights_, Merlin feels Arthur's hand inch over his thigh.

The sex had been… well, sex was expected. They flirted. They kissed. They prepared to fuck each other brainless.

Merlin tossed a packet of lubricant at Arthur's head, chuckling at the scowling look and mutter, and helped him with the condom ripping open. He spread his legs and himself open, listening to Arthur grunt and easing into the sensation of a cock filling him, riding out the slow, driving thrusts while on his back. Arthur fucked him into the bed like it was methodical, occasionally touching, gingerly over Merlin's ribcage or against the warm curve of his face. But Arthur didn't lift his own face, didn't gaze up, bowed in against Merlin's chest.

Somehow that tapers off lust once threatening a crescendo.

He can't _watch_ Arthur. Watching them was always the best part, killing or having sex.

Merlin keeps it going, making the appropriate, cataloging noises. He hooks his ankles to Arthur's neck, feeling him penetrate deeper. Merlin's cock bobs and tugs in his hand, growing hard once more but he can't come like this. He can't come with Arthur inside him and not fucking _looking_ at him like his entire world was being spiraled out of his control.

Like Arthur wasn't even _here_.

"Merlin, are you alright?"

Arthur's hands roam down his bare legs, raising gooseflesh. Merlin doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to _explain_. "Yea," he breathes, eyes wandering in the adjusted dark. "Think I'm…" Merlin sighs out, letting go of the rumpled bedsheets when Arthur pulls his cock out of him, leaving those inner muscles to ache and flutter, clenching on emptiness.

"We don't have to if…" Arthur straightens up, his concerned, blue eyes finally meeting Merlin's. "If you're tired, you're more than welcome to stay and rest."

Merlin pushes the layer of sweat off his forehead with both hands, leaving them tangled in his hair.

"You're inviting me for a sleepover?" he jokes.

Arthur mumbles, turning to Merlin's side flat on his stomach, "Suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Thank you, Arthur."

He means it. Merlin knows what he _wants_ now.

As the other man embraces his waist, leaving Merlin no choice but snuggle awkwardly against him, Merlin's eyes focus on a wallet sitting to the nightstand.

**.**

**.**

His _Avalon_ cigarette lighter hides a 4.5-mm single-shot pistol. He has to make it count.

Merlin ruffles Arthur's hair, imagining this was what proper affection felt like. What _liking_ someone meant.

He leaves the cap on, just enough for the barrel to be exposed. Merlin pulls up his legs into a wide kneeling stance, hovering over Arthur. He's ready.

Except now Arthur's lips shift apart, words passing in a low register.

"The first time I held a gun to a man's head, he pissed all himself." Arthur's eyes open, clear and without drowiness. "I remember how that smelled," he says, mildly.

Merlin's heart races. _Shit_, fuck.

"Arth—"

A hand snatches to Merlin's wrist, edging on painful, jerking him down as Arthur hauls upright. Arthur's fingers grab Merlin's hair, as he drags their mouths together, jaws open and teeth clicking. Merlin feels the switch, right back on his arse, and does nothing when Arthur's muscled body grinds dominantly on him, their cocks sliding and pushed together.

Merlin barely notices the freshly sharpened blade of a dirk to his jugular vein, until it's _there_.

He chews on his tongue, waiting patiently for a signal. Or an opening.

"Who was your first, Merlin?"

_Oh_.

Arthur stares at him as if he would like nothing better than to devour Merlin. And he could very well do that. He was _like_ Merlin.

"Don't remember," Merlin whispers, disinterested.

"I've told you that you are a _bad_ liar, Merlin."

The dirk presses on him, pressing and pressing. He feels a warm run of blood on his skin.

"Don't ever think you can _lie_ to me."

"Her name was Helen. She was an opera singer." Merlin tells him, features wary. "I wanted to know how loudly she could scream." Arthur's eyes are pupil-dark and sensational. He stops pressing the blade into Merlin's neck, rubbing his fingertips gently over the wound, smearing blood. "Why didn't you say anything if you knew who I was?"

"I wasn't sure," Arthur replies, softly, a thumb caressing Merlin's wrists still pinned to the bed. "Until now."

Merlin's heart felt like it was going a marathon, but he was more than willing to comply with Arthur.

"What now…?" he asks, neutrally.

Arthur laughed, releasing Merlin completely. He gathers up Merlin's pistol and tosses it and the dirk noisily on the floor.

"You owe me a proper fuck."

Merlin's eyes crinkled in a grin, mirroring the one above him.

"Think I can manage that," he says, coyly, grabbing whole handfuls of Arthur's perfect, tight buttocks.

**.**


	27. More Than Expected

_Title: More Than Expected  
_

_Content/Warnings: Genderbending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, Body Worship  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #27 "rough, biting scratch"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Marty has never seen a more tantalizing set of breasts in her entire life.

They hung like round, luscious pome, areolas a bronzey pink to her creamy skin, nipples dainty. She would spend nights burying her face into them, relishing the hot, malleable weight. Murmuring out cherishing words. Breathing deeply in Lynn's ocean spray perfume and the smoky hint of cigarettes in frizzy, black curls.

She swore she would never love her breasts, love _her_ like anyone else—because no one else compared to her girlfriend.

_Ex_-girlfriend, Marty supposes.

Lynn's being a vindictive trollop, flashing her teats while Marty is at work, but then again she can't absolutely loathe her for it. She cocked it up. Marty cocked it all up between them.

But she's not giving Lynn the satisfaction. Not while on an eight-hour shift at the mart, waiting on impatient arse after arse. Marty lets her countenance go blank, gaze dropping to Lynn's rolled up tee-shirt before meeting kohl-lined, bright blue eyes sending out the message of _See these? Not yours anymore, darling. Enjoy them while they're still here_.

A man and a woman push around the small line to check-out, earning themselves shouts of indignation and glares.

"Christ," Tristan mutters, rolling his eyes. He places down the items in his hands and grabs Lynn's arm.

Isolde yanks down the cropped, grey shirt at the exact same moment, shooting Marty an inquisitive glance. "Meredith, let's go," she orders, pulling the dark-haired woman away from the register. "We're going to be late." _Meredith_. So, what, Lynn was going by her first name (that Lynn told her she found atrocious) with her _new_ mates, was she?

"I've been told it's a bit cold outside." Marty informs her blandly, handing her ex-girlfriend a bag of groceries, "Perhaps you should stay covered up."

Lynn's eyebrows bunch together, her heart-shaped lips puckering in a scowl. She's bordering on pissed—apples of her cheeks flushed, eyes hazy. Marty's has seen it enough times.

"You're not helping," Isolde snaps, her fishtail braid hitting her shoulder as she whirls around.

Something in Marty's gut strains and heats with anger.

"Why are you letting her out like this?" she yells, leaning over the counter.

"It's not your fucking business what she does anymore," Tristan says, eerily calm. He flips her off, and Marty returns the favor, not caring her manager stares disapproving.

Fuck-all, she needs a drink.

**.**

**.**

It's Saturday and Marty is unspeakably horny.

Cedric grins when she invites him over, that little straggle-tooth baring. His hand slides between Marty's thighs, rubbing furiously against her thin underwear. Applying consistent pressure against her clit and getting her wet. He liked it good and quick, and so did she. It was probably the reason why they worked as decent fuckmates.

Marty thrusts down against his hand, rucking up her pencil skirt, and feeling a bare finger poke around the material and slip inside. She clenches instinctively, moaning. "You want it like this?" Cedric's middle finger joins, two thick fingers now curling and pumping fast, as she rocks her hips against him. "You're so fucking tight, baby. I want you to come on me."

"Shut the fuck _up_, Cedric," Marty breathes out, gripping onto his vest, nails digging in.

It's too dry and he's a fucking chauvinistic pig, but this is as close as a form of escapism as Marty can get. He preferred taking her anally while fingering sloppy inside her. Cedric talked once about wanting to fist her vagina while pounding into her ass, but it wasn't happening. This wasn't going to be a permanent deal.

Cedric's lips suck lightly against her throat, his beard uncomfortably scratchy and he groans when Marty rocks again, slickened and dripping around his hand.

But she's not feeling it, she—

"Oi, stop. Just," Marty whispers, pushing him away, pushes his hand. "Stop. Get out."

He stares bug-eyed as she corrects the length of her skirt, smoothing her tanned hands over it and avoiding his eyes.

"What the hell's your problem?" Cedric accuses. He stops, suddenly appearing wounded. "Did… I do something wrong?"

"It's over. This _arrangement_ is over, Cedric."

Marty curls her lip at him, feeling more than satisfied by the look of contempt—because he's a _fucking_ chauvinistic pig—hearing her door slam shut loudly in the next room.

She washes all of Cedric off her, from her and between her legs. The warm foggy steam feels good in her sinuses. Marty ties up her blond hair, hardly believing she's let it grow to her waist. As a child, she threw screeching fits about long hair, compelling her worn-out nanny to trim and style Marty's hair into a simpler boy's cut. Uther fired her the following day.

Uther Pendragon wanted his daughter as the perfect image of a _lady_.

Not dressed in footie uniforms, not playing beer pong at uni parties, not cursing in public, not fucking other women in her bed and considering tying the knot with one special.

Lynn… she never wanted anything from Marty that she couldn't be. She didn't think Marty needed to be indoors for fourteen hours of the day, learning needlepoint or playing the harp, or walking precariously the corridors in heels. She would smile toothy like Marty was her whole sun (which the irony in that and her namesake was astronomically hysterical).

They were ridiculously happy to the point where even Marty's mates gagged.

And then, Lynn caught her with Valiant in a bathroom stall. Valiant, the homophobic bugger. Marty knew it had been _stupid_. So, so stupid. Even while drunk.

They fought. They fought for days and days, until Lynn packed up her things, choking down angry sobs on her way out.

That memory haunted her.

Marty blinks down at her mobile face, glimpsing the familiar phone number. She doesn't know when her thumb had pressed **SEND**.

A tinny of a female voice calls out, repeatedly.

"…hello? Are you going to _say_ anything or am supposed to assume you're being stabbed to death?"

"M'sorry." Marty's voice breaks, wrecked with heartache. "I'm so fucking sorry, love."

There's gaping silence.

She doesn't know she's crying, tears slipping freely until Marty hears the dial tone.

**.**

**.**

Lynn's teeth had loved nibbling and sinking to Marty's flesh. She remember waking up in the morning with fresh, bruising marks to her shoulders, the insides of her wrists or on the curve of her breasts. She had bit down almost painfully, sending jolts of pleasure through the other woman, squirming and whining piercingly into Marty's kisses and hands.

It's much more painful to think about.

The black void of sky lights up candy-floss pink, booming deafeningly with the seaside carnival's fireworks. The hue vividly glosses into Lynn's curls.

A soft, slim hand falls to Marty's cheek, not coming to land a blow.

"I love you," Lynn tells her, solemnly. Hot pink sparks swimming in her eyes. "But I haven't forgive you, Arty. Not yet."

That's fine. That's… more than expected.

Marty holds her hand to her, afraid of losing that physical anchor, succumbing to that ugly tug of fear.

"Whatever you need. Anything," she blurts out, relief flooding through her when Lynn's mouth relaxes. "I love you, too."

"_Prat_."

**.**


	28. Win Or Lose

_Title: Win Or Lose  
_

_Content/Warnings: Reincarnation, Modern Era, Romantic Friendship, Psychological Trauma, Renaissance Faires  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #28 "role playing"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

Swords clang in a hellish tempo, as men in cheap plated armour rage against each other.

Arthur supposes this is what an out-of-body experience feels like.

He can't feel anything. Not a _thing_.

Awed numbness floods in him, stealing every body part from him except his heart. His heart pounds in Arthur's head, glaring, echoing like hoofs kicking up dirt.

It's grass—_crumbling stone_—beneath their feet, surrounded by open field—_gorges of cut boulder and shadows_—and the faces of anticipation. The enemies—_Saxons, they're coming_—begin dropping, twitching with a pathetic exaggeration of the death-call, tossing aside their blunted weapons—_soaked in blood, blood, his blood hisblood_— and eagle-spread.

Lying awake at night, Merlin's arm slung comfortably over his abdomen and hugging, Arthur can hear them.

He can still hear Camlann's horn when all goes quiet. The courageous screams of his knights, of every man dying, their rattled gasps and weeping, murmured prayers.

"Arthur?" Merlin—_Mordred smiles wickedly, Excalibur's blade thrust in deep through the silvery cast of mail_—Merlin, it's really him, stares right into his unfocused eyes, palming Arthur's too-warm face gently. "Arthur," he whispers, nearly pleading. "Look at me. Its only pretend. It's over—it's all over. You've won it, Arthur. You've won."

As his namesake lets out a terrible moan and grabs at his red-splattered chest, Arthur imitates the ginger-bearded King Arthur, scrabbling for the healed wound and cupping it.

Merlin's fingers grasp onto his temples, leveling Arthur's wide-eyed, bleary stare to him. His teeth gritting.

"Arthur, _damn it_!—"

"You've lied to me all this time," he murmurs, impassively. The reminder of those words brings hot and slickened bile up Arthur's throat. "I thought I knew you."

Merlin shook his head, a touch wildly, mouth rounding.

"No. No, don't do this, please," he breathes out. Merlin settles his hands back from Arthur's gold-tanned cheeks, as if fearful of touch.

"… I just got you back. I can't lose you, not like this. Arthur."

The genuinely spooked look turns faint, as Arthur closes his eyes, reaching to knuckle Merlin's jacket-sleeves.

He's. He's Arthur. He's King Arthur. A nobody from the town of Surrey… and a legend. He's the competing halves of both lives.

"Merlin?" Blue eyes reopen, peering to Merlin's softening expression. "What is…?"

"S'alright, everything's alright now," Merlin hushes him, pressing his lips fiercely to Arthur's brow. "We're gonna get some fresh air, c'mon." It's mid-day sunlight breaking over them and walking back towards the parking lot. They're already _outside_, Arthur notes in silence. But he allows Merlin to usher him from the roaring audience.

**.**

**.**

Merlin knows he only has himself to blame for this.

Arthur hadn't been ready. He wasn't going to be ready.

He's Arthur, but he's also _Arthur_—a once dead sovereign for his people, clumsy and unable to fully process the gaps stretching time. And, Merlin waited, reborn into countless lifetimes.

Until he got it right.

Until they were able to join together: Arthur's skin whole and real and flexing tendons, shuddering under Merlin's careful, lingering kisses.

He loves Arthur like this. He loves the strong musk of arousal on him, pushing slowly into Arthur's heat, bestowing lazy, admiring smiles.

He _loves_ Arthur, and it will be a bitter cold day in all seven hells when _anything_—destiny or elsewise—manages to greedily snatch him from Merlin's hands.

**.**


	29. Frail, Heartsick Things

_Title: Frail, Heartsick Things  
_

_Content/Warnings: Established Relationship, Modern AU, Royalty AU, Food Kink, So Married  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #29 "with food"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

It began when Merlin, out of spite, flicked a dollop of honey at Arthur.

Arthur didn't know _what_ Merlin's problem was—he thought Merlin looked particularly comely in a girly apron.

The stove-warmed honey landed square on Arthur's nose, leaving him aghast and his personal attendant in great peals of laughter. And then, by decree of his royal blood, Arthur engaged in a campaign to restore his honour.

Because, as far as he was concerned, Merlin had never worked a day in his life until now—cataloging a public library wearing your earphones and singing off-key _didn't_ count—and he had no refined social tendencies, while stumbling about verbally. Absolutely no regard for decorum or respect for his betters. Gaius asked for Uther to board his nephew at the estate, and his father agreed (he trusted Gaius's counsel more than he trusted his own bloody physicians) as long as the boy was _useful_ in some manner and earned his keep.

Hence, Merlin becoming the crowned prince's shadow, reluctantly following Arthur's orders, cleaning his quarters and bringing him meals.

Except shadows never _kept prattling on_.

Merlin was the most useless housekeeper Arthur had the displeasure of hiring, even if there wasn't a single wrinkle in Arthur's jumpers, even if his honey-cakes were superb, even if Merlin had been dismissive about the insults, flinging back his own with a shit-eating grin, and had this way of quelling Arthur's worries about being Britain's next great leader.

The turmoil of this country deepened, exploding with political riots and bombings. Groups of terrorizing anti-monarchists led by a woman who called herself Nimueh, who _knew_ Uther Pendragon's well-hated dictatorship and his security plans extensively, who had been once an ally and friend to Uther. Arthur knew virtually nothing of the bad blood between them. _Why_ she knew his mother and why Nimueh hated Uther so much. The last time he tried to breach the subject, his father nearly struck Arthur, overcome by his rage and fear.

There were heavily bound envelopes from the Merica representatives, from Lord Bayard and his heir, written about Nimueh's outright threats and requesting an audience. Most likely to discuss further plans to eliminate her resources. Arthur still needed to pore over them, go through all the necessary protocol, but he was a tad _preoccupied_ at the moment.

Or more importantly, he just found his opportunity to sneak up on Merlin from the secret compartment in the pantry.

Merlin let out a noisy, helpless squawk, feeling a burly arm encircle him from behind and pin him. He winced as two chicken eggs from Arthur's hand smashed into his hair.

"You—_bastard_!"

"Careful what you say to me, Merlin," Arthur breathed out, smirking and pressing insistently into Merlin's long, lean back in his hold. "We wouldn't want to have that tongue removed, now would we?" Arthur's right hand crept down, grasping Merlin's hip as the other man grunted out a chuckle, slowly pushing his ass back into Arthur's rocking sways.

"Eugh, don't think you'd enjoy that," Merlin said, black curls dripping yolk, skin flushed pink. He peered over his shoulder, smugly. "Seeing how fond you are of it, your highness…"

Arthur's face went hot, as did his groin tightening, remembering the delightful truth in those implications.

He didn't need to worry about the pair of them being caught, or video cameras, not in the closet-kitchenette attached to Arthur's suite quarters. Arthur's broad hands rubbed up Merlin's clothed sides, disappointed by the barrier keeping him from his partner's lovely, soft skin. _Partner_. Arthur had gotten used to thinking of Merlin like that.

"There's not a lot of you to be fond of—what the _devil_—!"

Arthur found himself careening onto his backside, Merlin's legs splayed out to his torso. He held a flour-covered rolling pin with both hands against Arthur's throat.

Where did he even get—?

"Do you want to give up?" Merlin asked, voice even, no longer grinning at him. But still with an undeniable, cheeky glint in his eye.

"To you?"

"Do. you? Do you want to give up, your highness?"

Arthur groaned, eyes looking upwards. He half-considered shouting for Geraint or Cador except this was _Merlin_, and the dolt might be a few marbles shy, but he was a loyal person. Loyal enough to take a revolver bullet meant for Arthur last year, in the middle of a outdoor crowd. He remember Merlin tearing around the guards and Uther, yelling and shielding Arthur with his front, arms outstretched and then collapsing with a boom. The wound bled out fast, darkening the concrete in so much red Arthur's head spun.

He could do nothing, staring blindly as the paramedics took Merlin. They were the only ones who could have saved Merlin. Uther's fingers had gnarled and clutched at him, heaving Arthur in another direction. Merlin lived. Merlin returned to the estate during the summer, perhaps a little more gaunt in expression, dark stubble having grown across his jaw.

Once alone, Arthur sank against his feathered bed with him, finally giving into the urge to kiss Merlin. And Merlin kissed him in equal clamor, tugging and raking Arthur's hair, sliding deep inside his mouth and licking against Arthur's molars. He murmured apologies and about frail, heartsick things Arthur didn't believe he could allow himself to feel.

Arthur decided then and there… he wouldn't ever stand by and _allow_ that to happen again. Not to Merlin or another person he cared for.

He would not allow someone to _die_ for him needlessly, not as the future king.

Merlin watched him curiously, still holding down the pin. A smudge of chocolate fondant on his temple.

"You still in there, dollophead?" he asked, fingers drumming.

With a quick, growling thrust, Arthur shoved off the item from his throat. He wrapped a leg to Merlin, cupping his neck with one hand and pulling him in. Merlin tasted like warmed honey and caramel, and it was likely what he nicked out of the mixing bowls. Merlin tenderly mewled against his lips, helping undo the lavender-fabric knot to his apron.

"Be quick about it," left him as a command, strained because of what Merlin's hands were doing to him.

Merlin cocked an eyebrow, stalling from reaching and fondling Arthur's balls. It was a little frightening how efficient Merlin could unbutton or remove his garments.

"You got somewhere to be?"

"_Mer_lin." Arthur gazed up, exasperated. "For fuck's sake," he started, and then went quiet, lips biting as Merlin rut their hips together. Bare cocks jerking and slipping up.

"Good fuck is what you need, hmm?" Merlin said, faintly mocking, "Am I your paramour, _sire_? Open my legs for you but shut my mouth?"

Arthur heard a mutter from himself, edging close to panting.

"I hardly think you're capable of keeping your mouth shut for more than five minutes, so I wouldn't expect that out of you."

That was apparently the _right_ insult, because Merlin's face tempered, and he mouthed Arthur's jaw in a fluttering series of kisses. He came to a release, slicking the material of Arthur's jumper and his stomach, whispering Arthur's name over and over as if it were his beloved psalm. Arthur held him through it, feeling their bodies cool, their semen mingled.

Merlin's loud huff of breath to his ear twitched him. Arthur rubbed at the appendage, not quite perturbed, but more of his lower back aching on the tiled-floor.

"Uther expects you to marry your _queen_ before your thirty-fifth birthday."

"I haven't forgotten," Arthur told him, calmly. He wanted to vanquish the hurt in Merlin's features, the sense of being painfully lost. "I could easily make you my royal consort." Arthur's fingers soothed over Merlin's chest, right where the lumping ridge of scarring discolored Merlin's fair skin. "It's legal in documentation."

"But not in their eyes." Merlin was right, of course—_rarely so_, but he was. Parliament as well as Uther's advisers would be far from approving. The media would hound them, sniffing out any dirty rumors or accusations. Arthur frowned as the other man tilted his head away. "It would be easier if I was carrying your illegitimate child," Merlin said, bitterly.

"I rather fancy you as you are, Merlin."

He emphasized his point with a quick, gentle tug on Merlin's wet, over-sensitized cock, earning him a hard swat and whimper.

If Merlin _wasn't_ in line to be his future consort, Arthur may have had him dropped in a vat of hot oil for that.

"I'd say yes," came a softer, more vulnerable tone than Merlin used. Arthur witnessed him fidget atop him, chewing his lip. "If, if you asked me—I mean. I don't imagine I'd say no."

"I should hope not."

"Then _yes_."

Arthur couldn't help the ridiculously joyous grin, sitting up and taking heart when Merlin's arms immediately go round him, clinging.

No man could know their destiny, but Arthur had hope in the one he would pave out with _this_ man.

**.**


	30. A New Age

_Title: A New Age  
_

_Content/Warnings: Mpreg, Canon Era, Magical Pregnancy, Romance, Humor, Post - Magic Revealed  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Day #30 "whatever pleases you"  
_

_***BONUS FIC FOR TOMORROW/DAY 31! STAY TUNED!_

* * *

**.**

**.**

He's never felt like this before.

Magic teems in every vein he has, pulling his core, bursting in crackles of light underneath the surface. Merlin feels the eve's air and ground reverberate, toes damp and wriggling to the soil, murmuring to him with an ancient tongue no one else could hear. Telling him fear only ruled the hearts of men, telling Merlin he was infinite and small and _alive_.

**.**

**.**

Essetir was no friend of Camelot.

But disguised as peasants, they can go anywhere. Even if it meant risking poisoned darts and Lot's soldiers.

Merlin feels _amazing_ and he doesn't wait until Arthur gulps the rest of his cup of mead, before launching onto him, knocking them over with legs tangled and mouths blazing for kiss-contact. He wants to soak in the heat emitting. Merlin wants to sink and vanish forever, gasping against Arthur's opened, red-raw lips.

The crudely fashioned bed-frame squeaks, banging minutely to the inn's wall. Merlin counts them fortunate that a majority of the tavern celebrate their own drunken stupor below. Not that he would ask for the silence as opposed to Arthur's breathy grunts of effort, pleasure ragging him as he buckles on top of Merlin, arse clenching around Merlin's shaft.

"Go faster," Merlin whines out, impatiently. His head impacting the thin-feeling cot.

It's too good, it's _so_ good. The friction drives him mad.

With a smaller downwards push, Arthur's muscles undulated further and Merlin can thrust as he likes, sliding through the oil, touching something more intimate than he believes. When Arthur shifts, body rising and pulling off him, Merlin sighs out, his cock engorged and darkly colored and springing back to Merlin's abdomen, leaving a smear of precum.

He drags Merlin over him, going to his knees as Merlin enters him, sloppily pushing the glistening tip to catch Arthur's rim, his orgasm a hair away. He does succumb to it, filling Arthur with his seed, thighs going rigid as the pressure increases when Arthur comes, moaning into his golden forearms.

Merlin softly grins, petting over the display of Arthur's back, unconsciously tracking how his spine tenses.

"That was…"

"Leave me, Merlin." Arthur says coldly, rolling away, "Go attend the horses."

Merlin hesitates, staring outright.

He's unsure of the emotion to pinpoint on. But it does feel like his lungs were bruised.

"… Yes, of course, _sire_," he says in a biting tone, yanking back for his ruined trousers as Arthur's face drifts into neutral, perfected stoic. "Whatever _you_ command."

His magic sends out a weakened current of energy, shoving at one of Arthur's shoulders invisibly, viciously.

Arthur does nothing to it, says nothing to him. He burrows down on the left side of the tiny cot, stealing all the covers. Merlin seethes, banging the door behind him, teeth gritting.

**.**

**.**

It's been years since Morgana's last plot against Camelot. Uther's spirit remains broken, leaving him either raving or drooling in his vegetative state.

He discovers Arthur slumped lifeless besides his desk, perspiring and a shade too white.

"Gods," Merlin says, voice detached, but he heaved the polished weapons onto a table, several missing and clattering deafeningly. "Arthur, wake up." Merlin grabs his overheated face. "Wake up, you stupid _toad_!" he yells, too panicked to register his actions. Merlin clouts a palm across Arthur's cheek, hard as he can, relieved to hear a low, confused noise.

"What the hell… rrru doing on the floor?"

"What the _hell_ are _you_ doing on the floor?" Merlin retorts, eyebrows drawing together. "You passed out."

"Dizzy," Arthur mumbles, eyelids drooping over summery-blue eyes.

Merlin purses his lips in thought, fingers tightening on Arthur. He gently sets Arthur's head back.

"I'm going to find Gaius," he announces, sprinting for Arthur's bed and snatching up two of the pillows. "Don't move. You're going to be alright."

"You're… a terrible wet-nurse, Merlin."

He wrinkles his nose at the snubbing, weird remark, but can't help smiling. If Arthur still has the energy to argue, that's good news.

"I do what I can, m'lord," Merlin says, responding with a light brush of a kiss to Arthur's knuckles.

**.**

**.**

Gaius has no definite answers. But he recommends a younger woman from the lower town, a reassuring kind of cheerful and bright-eyed personality.

Merlin hears a whisper of _midwife_.

"I do believe this is a first I've seen," she chirps, nodding to Arthur. "You're displaying all the correct symptoms."

"It isn't true. I'm a king—not only that, I don't have the—_parts_—necessary," Arthur stutters, nearly flailing, embarrassed.

"A magical conception is not entirely unheard of, in the days of the Old Religion."

Gaius folds his hands into the sleeves of his textured robes, pointing his chastising look at his ward.

"_Merlin_," Arthur's head snaps to him, a growl escaping him. Merlin slackens his mouth to open wide, disorientated.

"I… I didn't know…"

"You had to have known _something_!" Arthur's fists slam into the sides of the bedding. "With you and your bloody magic!"

"I couldn't exactly help that, Arthur—I was _born_ like this!" Merlin shouts.

"And I'm _with-child _because of you, you buffoon sorcerer!"

"My lord, please," the midwife starts to plead, suddenly looking worried. "This fighting isn't healthy for the babe. Your condition is very delicate."

To Merlin's utter amazement, Arthur looks down at himself, as if mentally stricken, and automatically touching his flat belly.

"Bed-rest would be recommended, for the fainting spells," Gaius says calmly, packing up his supplies in his medicine bag.

Merlin's eyes narrow, watching as Arthur's hand situated on himself jolts, as if burned.

**.**

**.**

With the death sentence on all forms sorcery already well on its way to being lifted, they all enjoy peace.

But—it's a lie. There's no peace for anyone while Arthur's pregnancy hormones boil over. He's gaining weight rapidly and prone to explosive tempers, whether throwing jugs at Merlin or crying fits that put him a shameful mood for the rest of the day, even while Merlin's fingers kindly stroke his hair, circling against Arthur's scalp and relaxing him.

What puts Arthur in a scary good mood, and emphasis on _scary_, is leading the training grounds.

"Put your _backs_ into it!" Arthur gestures furiously at his men as they weave around each other, feinting and lunging their swords. He paces one spot of grass, right near where Merlin sits and observes from a bench. If he kept at it, Merlin supposed the grass would wear down and flatten. "I've seen _crones_ with more steel in their blood than you lot!"

"Arthur…"

"_Run the drills again_!"

The knights collectively groan in their heads.

Lancelot and Gwaine exchange furtive glances, and then stare beseechingly at Merlin '_help us he's too far gone we're gonna die_' to which Merlin frowns sympathetically.

"Arthur," he tries again, waiting until the other man glances doubtfully at him. A ringed hand skimming over Arthur's slightly distended belly. No armour, no chain-mail. Arthur hadn't been allowed, with Gaius and the midwife's list of instructions. "Perhaps it's time for someone else to train the knights, for a little while… while you're…"

One of Arthur's eyes begin twitching.

Merlin sucks an inhale, bracing himself.

"While you're carrying our babe," he amends, seriously. "Gaius would tell you you need be off your feet, not overworking yourself."

Instead of the expected, immediate temper tantrum, Arthur only jeers, lips curling faintly.

"Is that an _order_, Merlin?"

"No, it isn't, but you should heed it anyway," Merlin says, toeing the dirt and smiling knowingly in return.

**.**

**.**

He hates this.

Arthur hates feeling powerless and swollen in his own body, unable to dress appropriately in his ceremonial attire as the newly appointed _King_ of Camelot.

But…

Arthur's grown used to the feeling of little, soft movements. Talking affectionately to the life blossoming inside him, whenever Arthur could get a moment to himself. The babe often recognized Arthur's voice, getting excitable. Which was desirable in the evenings while Arthur slept, keeping the constant aches and his irritability at bay.

Merlin didn't occupy his bed with him, as Arthur complained about the shared heat—but he did join Arthur for long naps, upright with an arm nestling around Arthur's pillow.

He settles deeper into the cushions, longing for his beloved companion for no particular reason.

_Beloved_, Arthur repeats to himself. Oh dear.

He pushes up his loose, white tunic, distracting the tender, warm feelings about Merlin by inspecting the roundness of his stomach. Only several more months until Arthur would be himself once more. But _however_ he and Merlin ended up in this position, accidental magical conception or that rot, Arthur's child would not be treated with malice or ill will.

The babe had a legitimate claim to Arthur's throne, and would have that affirmed as soon as Geoffrey came to him about the revised court documents.

Arthur's fingers gently lace across his exposed, warmed skin before he notices a familiar face.

"Guinevere," he says, bewildered.

Just as Arthur removes his hands, making to push down his tunic, Guinevere stays his hand by touching his wrist.

"… May I?" she asks, beaming. When Arthur indicates she can approach, Guinevere perches on the edge of his bed, shyly holding her palm over Arthur's bump. "It's quite miraculous, isn't it?" Guinevere's eyes crinkled up. "Then again, I suppose most who can bear children are."

He supposes she speaks from experience, remembering how she carried herself gracefully through the corridors, heavy with her and Lancelot's babe, always sweet and polite.

Arthur clears his throat. "How is your son?" he asks.

"A terror," Guinevere says honestly, but laughing. "But I love him. With all my heart—_oh_," she backs off as Arthur's large, pale stomach wobbles visibly.

He swallows down a wince, not pained by the curious, overwhelming sensation but mildly uncomfortable. Arthur brings his hands up to cup its sides.

"I'm not sure what its doing."

"What does it feel like?"

"Muscle spasms," Arthur confesses.

"Then he's likely hiccuping. My stomach would do that for Galahad." She says, arranging herself with her hands primly in her lap. "Try rubbing yours slowly. It may calm him down."

He doesn't bother rectifying her statement, especially since Arthur didn't know either what the babe's sex was. Arthur slides his palm over the top of his bump, doing as suggested, and is amazed that the tremble calms, until he can't feel it after a couple minutes. Arthur grins in silent appreciation, meeting Guinevere's dark eyes.

"See?"

Arthur hums absently.

"I _can't_ believe I've been confined to my chambers," he grumbles. "By _Merlin_."

Guinevere sighs as if she's heard this before. "He's worried for you and your babe. And from what I heard, _you_ have been not been resting as you should."

If there is one continuous behavior about Guinevere that he admired, it was her ability to speak freely to him, despite their statuses.

"My men need training," he says, giving her a studious expression.

"And from what I understand, Leon is handling the task as you recover, as your men dutifully follow him in your stead. They need you well." She asks, "You still attend your counsels?"

"Not for long." Arthur then wears an uncharacteristically wide-eyed look. "I'm going to be _huge_, Guinevere," he says, groaning loudly. "Bigger than this."

Guinevere laughs again, much to his chagrin. "Oh, just listen to you fuss!" she teases.

"_Guin_evere…"

She had been spending far too much time with Merlin, the clotpole.

**.**

**.**

Merlin spends more time during the evenings, as Arthur grows heavier and rounder, now unable to stand from the bed or chairs without aid.

"I've spoken Iseldir—y'know, the Druid cheiftain," he says, lying in bed with him and massaging Gaius's ointment for Arthur's stretchmarks into warm, dimpled flesh. "He knows an enchantment that will help us." Merlin explains, ignoring the lazy, searching tug on his blue scarf, "During the fertility rituals, it was common for men for also participate."

_Hmm_.

"And this man was one of them?" Arthur drawls, focusing on Merlin's concentrated face, "He… had been able to carry?"

Merlin's lips thin.

"Do you remember the Druid boy you held your sword to when we took the Cup of Life?" he mentions, appearing sheepish. "That was Iseldir's son… who he carried."

The recollection of his past actions has Arthur shutting his eyes, posing his hands together and wiping his face in exasperation.

"And you suppose he is perfectly _alright_ helping us?" Arthur says, sardonically.

"I _know_ he is," Merlin replies, mapping his fingers over the shiny, firm belly. The confidence (as well as Merlin's obvious show of fondness) does help reassure him.

"You're a good man, Arthur. That's the _only_ reason."

**.**

**.**

Upon a cool slab of granite, writhing and naked, Arthur half-listens to the noises around him.

Merlin grasps his hand securely, their fingers knotted, chanting along with the Druids.

His gaze full of orange, glowing flames.

Arthur's eyes land on Merlin's hand pressing down on the curve of his huge, quivering belly. And then, a sense of _emptiness_ rips through him. Arthur cries out, neck bowing, arching up, his vision spinning and darkening. He comes down from the pure _sensation_, dazed and watery-limbed and squeezing Merlin's fingers roughly when the warlock calls his name.

"Merlin—"

"I'm here," Merlin whispers, lips scraping Arthur's hand before he kisses Arthur with so much _devotion_ and love—it's _love_, isn't it—that Arthur's eyes pleasantly stung.

A shrill wail directed their attention to Iseldir and his son. The teenage Druid offers them a quiet smile, holding out the pinkened, squalling newborn.

Merlin steps forward, cradling his and Arthur's son with both arms. He pushed his fingertips through peachy, fine hairs, staring down in awe.

"You have been blessed, Arthur Pendragon," Iseldir says, solemnly, but his smile wide and enigmatic. "It is a new age for us all."

**.**


	31. BONUS: Mercy In Us

_Title: Mercy In Us  
_

_Content/Warnings: Abduction, Soulmates, Canon AU, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Magic  
_

_30 Day OTP Challenge Prompt: Bonus Day "winner's choice"  
_

* * *

**.**

**.**

When Arthur wakes, it feels as if he had been slipped a triple dose of Gaius's sleeping draft, and still needed to recover from it.

His skull protests to the change in weight, throbbing quite like a drum, as he tilts it up.

The last thing he remembers was aiding Leon on the battlefield, knocking away the sword of a furious, snarling bandit meaning to run him through. A crossbow going off somewhere in the distance. And now Arthur was coming out of deep state of unconsciousness, body aching and lying back on a pile of soft pillows. How did he get… ?

This isn't Camelot.

This isn't his chambers, not with the strangely patterned wood-paneling above him, not with the lack of velvety curtains around Arthur's bed.

And certainly not with the glittering metal chains wrapped firmly to Arthur's wrists, keeping his hands to the bedposts.

"Up and at'em!" rings out a cheerful voice.

Arthur's vision spins a moment as he jerks his head to the source. A lad, perhaps several name-days younger than Arthur, approaches him, smiling like a complete fool. He wears a long, bright blue robe that goes to his feet and with sleeve-ends that cover the tips of his fingers. When he rakes his hands to black curls, they fall away and reveal pale, thin arms.

"Who the hell are _you_?" Arthur's voice grows from confused to enraged. How dare this _peasant_—

"I'm Merlin," the lad says, flashing teeth once again in another wide, unassuming smile.

"What is this?" Arthur tests the strength of the chains to his wrists, finding with some dismay that they clink and _tighten_ up. "Where are my men—_WHO_ are you?"

Merlin snorts at him, eyes on the magical bindings.

"I've told you that," he repeats. "Don't worry, you're safe and far, far away from the battle. You could have died. I brought you here."

(But _where_ was here?)

Dread filters in through Arthur's chest, quickening his breath. Had he been kidnapped…? Or was this a ransom?

"Then let me free, _Mer_lin," he grits out, expression twisting unpleasantly.

"Why? So you can go get yourself killed again?"

_Again_.

His eyebrows furrow together, as he tries to piece together the possible reason Merlin looks both utterly frustrated and mournful. But Arthur doesn't believe he'll tell him, likely not until it suited the lad. Arthur tries his restrains once more, crying out sharply when the glittering chains _squeeze_ down on him, as if reacting to his movement.

Merlin rolls his eyes, frowning. "Will you _stop_ that? It'll only get worse if you keep at it."

"I want to know how I got here!" Arthur yells at him, face reddening.

"Knocked you out," he says, deadpan. When Arthur stares ridiculously disbelieving, Merlin adds, "With a lump of wood. A very large one for your very large head."

Despite a murderous instinct to remove Merlin's head from his shoulders, Arthur feels a light, tickley sensation in his gut. He's _amused_.

That is until Merlin's hand outstretches to the bedchamber's fireplace, and the cold, dark embers spark to life. Arthur's legs curl in to himself, fear pounding through him as Merlin's irises shine a radiant gold. "You're a sorcerer," Arthur mumbles, pressing himself closer to the headboard and the mound of pillows.

Merlin observes him in acceptance, as if expecting it.

"I was born with it. As I suppose you were born a prince, _milord_."

He chuckles quietly as Arthur's eyes narrow in determination.

"I don't consort with sorcerers," he says.

Arthur winces a little as the glittering chains fell apart, with a flick of warm, pulsing magic. It skims Arthur's cheek, humming and _lovely_.

Merlin tells him, with a mocking tone, "Good thing I'm not a _sorcerer_ then."

Arthur's wrists ring colored with purpling marks, and he looks down, rubbing at them insistently. Now able to get away, Arthur pushes to one side on the bed in a roll and groans out as a surge of horrific _agony_ branches out through his upper back, seizing up his neck and going down his spine. He gives in to it, whimpering as Merlin rolls him back, shushing him.

"Don't. You're not full recovered." Arthur feels a cool hand to his brow, Merlin's thumbpad soothing over the lines to his forehead.

He cracks an eye open, but not relaxing to the pillows.

"Why?"

It's a single, breathy question that escapes Arthur's lips. Merlin shakes his head, chewing his lower lip.

"You had an arrow in your back," he answers.

"But _why_?"

(Why are you doing this?)

It hangs between them, fogging the calm.

"You were dying, Arthur Pendragon," Merlin says finally, rasping. "You're meant to end the war against Albion and magic. How could I even _think_ of letting you die?"

There it was. Whether or not it was selfish motivation, Arthur had heard enough from him.

He sneers at Merlin, with a bloody film still on Arthur's teeth. "Do you think you can _seduce_ me with your magic?"

"No," Merlin says, his lips quirking. "I can do that fine on my own."

The warlock crawls up on the bed, hands touching over Arthur's ripped, maroon tunic. He leans in, breathing in his scent as Arthur's chin turns away, leaving only his profile exposed. Arthur knows he smelled like the battlegrounds, dirt and blood and sweat. He can't imagine its appeal.

"… you're untried."

Every inch of Arthur ripples with embarrassed heat as Merlin acknowledges this gently, as he scowls, facing Merlin once more.

"I'm betrothed," Arthur says, feeling it was a weak argument.

But Merlin doesn't ridicule him, only nodding.

"She's very lucky, but I doubt you'll make her happy."

"Why is that?"

Merlin smirks, reaching down to press an open hand on Arthur's semi-hard cock. The sweet pressure floods through Arthur, stifling an exhale, and making him far more harder.

"Just a _feeling_ is all," he teases.

Merlin's fingers tease the outline, grasping slowly at Arthur through his trousers. He pulls Arthur's cock out, earning him a satisfied noise. Merlin licks his palm, rhythmically stroking the length of bare skin. "So you put a babe in her belly… and you've done your duty for king and country?" Merlin's whisper falls like hot puffs to Arthur's ear.

Arthur grips a hand onto Merlin's hip, bunching up the soft, blue fabric. Too flimsy. Merlin's not close enough for him.

"_Yes_," he moans, but not sure if it was to the inquiry.

Magic—it has to be _magic_—glides under Arthur's clothing, keeping to him like a warm, rustling and _living_ pressure.

Arthur's lips press to Merlin's jaw, opening there.

"Gods, _Merlin_," he pants, digging his fingers harshly into black curls as Merlin changes his pace, stroking Arthur off faster. "It's… "

"I think it likes you," Merlin replies, grinning against Arthur's throat.

The magic hums loudly in their ears, as if agreeing, caressing invisible tendrils down Arthur's legs and calves. It draws shudders from Arthur, echoing pleasure, helping him bring off against Merlin's hand and slicking it, leaving visible droplets of Arthur's seed to the ripped, maroon tunic.

Merlin bent his head low, kissing the ring on Arthur's left index finger. His _mother's_ ring.

"Let's end this war between our realms," he murmurs, devoutly.

Arthur's heart speeds up.

"Merlin…" he says, in hitched breathing, in realization. Oh, gods damn him. "Merlin _Emrys_… "

"Yes, milord."

Arthur insists, hand leaving Merlin's hair, mouth dropping open, "Why are you… you're a crowned _prince_. You are Nimueh's and Balinor's son."

"End all of this bloodshed and hatred with me." Merlin's eyes begin watering as he says, voice shaking, "Arthur, your heart is pure. I watched you. I've seen you in my dreams." He wipes at his face, clutching Arthur's ringed hand to him like a lifeline. "I saw _you_ die, and I know there will be consequences for stopping it, but _please_… "

_Consequences_…

That was putting it mildly. The matters of life and death had taken Arthur's mother, and as Gaius confessed to him and Uther purposely left out, _against_ the wishes of Merlin's own mother. Arthur had never met Nimueh's child. Only heard of his sorcery, of his mighty powers and elusive nature.

But Merlin was nothing fearsome as he cries with red-tinged eyes and splotched cheeks, about _Arthur_, about their fate.

"If I am returned to Camelot, then I swear it to you, Merlin." Arthur meets his gaze, solemn. "It ends," he says.

"I swear it," Merlin tells him, nostrils wet, lying his head to Arthur's shoulder. A sniffling, relieved sound leaves Merlin as Arthur's hand runs up his back comfortingly. The pillows feel like heaven to Arthur's sore-aching back and he _relaxes_ to them, his skull no longer pounding.

He needs to believe Merlin will hold his word.

He _needs_ him.

**.**


End file.
